Middle Ground
by Emma15
Summary: Stories set in the A Beer 'verse.
1. The Bachelor Party

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**Disclaimer: **I do not own "Supernatural" or any of its characters – they own me. This story is based on the Season 1 episode "Asylum."

**Author's Note**: Massive thanks to **Lembas7** who went through _each _chapter of this story and beta'd it for me. Thank you so much for helping me make it better. :D Any remaining errors are all me.

**Story Summary**: Dean tries to bail on the bachelor party. Sam isn't having it.

* * *

The phone rang just as she finally became engrossed in her reading. With a groan, Jess got up and started following the sound. It was anyone's guess where the handset was. It led her to kitchen, to sink, to the dish rack. 

"Hello?" she said on a sigh.

"Hey Jess."

The words were quiet, but she recognized the voice. "Dean?" she asked, frowning a little. He sounded decidedly un-Dean-like.

"Yeah, it's me."

"Hey! What's up?" She smiled as she made her way back to the living room, "Are you stopping by?"

She'd given up asking where he was.

She'd given up asking where he was going.

It only caused tension – and she had a lifetime to figure it out.

There was a pause after her question, then, "No, no . . . I'm trying to reach Sam . . . he's not picking up . . ." he trailed off. The words made her smile falter; there was definitely a very un-Dean-like tone to his voice.

"He's at some lecture – about torts, I think," she offered. "Legal stuff."

"Oh."

He was silent after that and she started feeling anxious, "Is everything okay?" she asked softly.

"Yeah, yeah – just . . ." His quick reassurance trailed off. She heard him take a breath. "Could you tell him I can't make the bachelor party?"

Her instinct was to scream _WHAT?!_ at the top of her lungs, but the un-Dean-ness of this conversation made her reign that impulse in.

Dean had stayed for five days straight planning the bachelor party for Sam –which was really more like a bachelor triathlon than a party. It involved a map and a highlighted route, with bars and diners picked out, and it culminated at the concert of some band.

It was the longest stretch Dean had spent with them to date and Sam had been ecstatic the entire time – even those moments when bloodshed had seemed imminent.

There was no question that the events held some sort of significance to the brothers. Everyone could see it, though no one asked. Why bother when any explanation given left you with more questions than before? Why bother when the more you heard the more you wondered _what _had caused the separation between them? The more you wondered _how _they could have been separated at all . . .

"Tell him I'm sorry and that I'll call -" Dean continued.

His voice was soft, quiet almost, and he sounded hesitant; like he wasn't sure this was what he wanted.

"Dean," she interrupted. "Are you _sure _everything is okay? Why don't you wait till Sam gets back and talk to him . . ."

"Everything's fine. Tell him that. Tell him everything's fine. I just . . . I'm kinda far and I'm not gonna make it tomorrow. That's all."

The sentences weren't stuttered exactly, but it was close enough that she felt the hairs on her neck stand up. There was _really _something wrong.

"You put a lot of work into this weekend, Dean," she said instead, digging for her cell phone among the papers scattered on the coffee table.

"Yeah, I know, but . . . as long as Sam enjoys it -"

"He'd enjoy it more if you were here," she interrupted again, texting Sam with one hand.

WHERE R U?

"I wish I could be, Jess . . . really, I do," he said quietly, and she heard the truth in that.

"Then make it happen."

ON MY WAY HOME

"It's not that easy . . ."

"Where are you exactly?"

CHECK UR MESSAGES. DEAN CALL U?

There was a pause, then, "Illinois." His voice was low and she felt another shiver.

"Take a flight," Jess offered. "On us. Just tell us what town you're in and -"

He cut her off. "No. I can't."

"Just _park _the car at the airport, Dean," she huffed. "It'll be fine."

NO. Y?

Dean had lied. Dean was lying _now. _

Dean - for whatever reason - didn't _want _to talk to Sam.

"I can't, Jess. Just . . . apologize to Sam for me . . . I hafta go . . ."

GET HOME _FAST!_

"Wait!" she cried. "Come on Dean, do you think Sam is gonna be able to handle this weekend without you?" she asked, standing up to pace the room. God, how long could she stall him?

"Sure, yeah . . . it'll be fine. They're _his _friends."

"Yes, but this was all your idea . . ." she drawled. "And now you're gonna hang Sam out to dry?"

"It's just a little road trip. The entire route is mapped. All the bars are marked, all the diners are selected, the motels are reserved, and Sam has the tickets for the concert. Everything will be fine."

_Dammit_, it _did _sound like everything would be fine. Jess grimaced. "Okay, but..."

"Don't worry 'bout it. I really have to go now. I'll see you -"

Inspiration struck. "At the rehearsal dinner, right?" she asked, interrupting him.

There was a loaded pause, then, "Do I have to dress up for that?"

The question almost made her smile, but there was just something so _off _about his tone. Something subdued that made her want to _see _him, to make sure he was as okay as he was trying to make her think he was.

"Not unless you want to, Fonzi," she teased, gunning for a chuckle or a joke; _anything_ more Dean_-_like. She heard the chuckle a moment later, but it stopped abruptly and the line was silent. "You're the best man; you gotta come," she continued. When the silence stretched she added, "To make sure you know what to do."

A moment later, he said, "I stand next to Sam."

She opened her mouth to answer, but another voice came through the line; so deep and throaty it practically made her phone vibrate.

"M'goin' out - be back later."

And she knew she'd just heard the voice of The Dad.

The One That Shall Not Be Named Nor Mentioned Nor Even Vaguely Referred To.

Sam's father.

The phone was silent and for a moment and she thought he'd hung up on her. Then Dean's voice came over the line. "I really have to go..."

She was gripping the phone and her heart was starting to race. "Dean, you should _really _talk to Sam . . ."

"Jess, please . . ." he said, and god where the _HELL _was Sam!

. . . Because Dean sounded sort of _desperate? _And that made no sense!

He was asking her for something, saying _please _for something and she had no idea _what _because it was coded in that Sam-Dean language that she'd never received the translator for!

"Tell Sam that I can't make it tomorrow; tell him everything's fine . . . just do that for me," he stated.

"Dean, you should tell him yourself. He'll want to hear it from you . . ."

"No, he won't. I can't talk to him -"

She heard keys at the front door then and raced towards it. Sam opened it just as she reached it and she released an audible sigh of relief; then quite literally shoved the phone into Sam's hands.

_Dean,_ she mouthed silently.

Sam's pinched expression tightened and he brought the phone to his ear. "Dean?"

There was a pause, then, "Well hell . . . I should'a seen that one coming."

Sam mouthed a quick _thank you _to Jess and then headed to the study; closing the door firmly behind him. "Where are you? What happened?" he asked, in quick succession.

There was silence on the line.

"Dean! Where are you?"

"Rockford, Illinois."

"What happened?"

"Nothin -"

"Dean!"

"Pissed off spirit, Sammy, nothing new."

"Something's wrong," Sam stated, and the fact that Dean didn't jump in to contradict sent his heart rate up.

"I can't make the bachelor party," Dean finally said.

And that was bad. Any other time and Sam would have hit the roof over that. Because this bachelor party was for _them. _It hadn't been discussed, hadn't been planned, but when Dean had suggested a small road trip, Sam had suggested diners and motels . . . this trip was theirs. The bars had been added as an afterthought – for the others.

So Dean not coming was _not_ a minor thing. It decimated the plans – but it was not what was _wrong._

He knew that all the way down to his soul. Dean never confessed what was actually wrong. Never that easily. Never that quickly. Usually never, period.

Sam swallowed hard. "Dean, tell me what's wrong."

"I just did."

"I will fly to Illinois."

"Sam -"

"I mean it, Dean."

There was a long pause and Sam was pacing the study so fast it was a wonder tread marks didn't show up.

"I screwed up."

The admission was quiet and Sam felt himself still. He stopped pacing and gripped the phone a little tighter. "I doubt that," he responded, because he truly did.

There was a bitter chuckle and that flight to Illinois was looking better and better. "Don't," Dean grated out.

"Tell me."

"It . . . caught me off guard."

"You're hurt?"

Again that bitter chuckle. "I fucked up bad, Sammy . . ."

"Are you hurt?"

"I hurt Dad."

Sam dropped onto the sofa, his breath coming a little faster. There was something unidentifiable in his brother's voice; something deep and dark, something that had come into being while Sam was away . . . something Sam couldn't hope to understand. "What happened?"

There was an explanation. A really good one. He knew that. Dean would never hurt their Dad on purpose. Never.

"I could have killed him."

The recrimination was patently obvious and it redoubled Sam's efforts to get the rest of the story. "How? What happened?"

"It caught me off guard."

"The spirit? It possessed you?"

A quiet snort. "Yeah, if only..."

Sam held back the urge to ask again, to scream that that wasn't an answer. He was silent. He waited.

"I remember everything. I wasn't possessed."

Sam still waited.

"I was angry. Furious. I couldn't see straight, think straight . . . I – I screwed up."

"Did you kill it?"

"Dad did."

"Is he okay?"

"Yes."

"Then stop blaming yourself. Jobs get screwed up sometimes. It happens."

"Not like this. I – said things . . ."

"Things?"

"God, Sam . . . I – _God, _I just – I was so _angry _and I . . . couldn't stop it – I said -"

"It's okay, Dean." Sam didn't know what it was, what had happened, all he knew was that his brother sounded closer to tears than he could remember in a long time.

"No, Sammy. It's not . . . I said - _God, _the things I said . . ." Dean's voice dropped, "I couldn't breathe, I was so furious . . ."

"The spirit made you angry?"

"Yeah . . . kinda. But – it didn't . . . they were my – I would never had said – I fucked up."

His brother was torturing himself over something that he'd had no control over. "Dean, listen to me," he said steadily. "Jobs get fucked up sometimes, it's the nature of the beast. You can't help that."

"You don't understand -"

"Whatever it was, whatever you said, it's okay." _Dad probably deserved it._ The thought slithered through his mind, but it wouldn't help Dean to say it, so he didn't.

"No, Sam -"

"You said he was fine."

"He is -"

"Then it's okay, Dean."

"No, it isn't." The words were whispered and Sam's heart clenched.

"I was – I was cruel, Sam," his brother continued, in that quiet, raspy tone that was breaking Sam's heart. "I was – so _angry_, the words wouldn't stop. I couldn't stop – I – I _shot _him, Sam."

The bottom dropped out of Sam's stomach. The line was silent. "You said he was okay?" he finally whispered.

"He is . . . it wasn't – it was rock salt."

Sam winced a little. That would _hurt_. "But he's okay?" he asked again.

He heard Dean swallow, "Yeah. Bruised, but – okay."

Sam nodded to himself, releasing a long breath. They were silent for a long moment. "Shit happens, Dean." Sam began again.

"I should have been more careful," his brother countered immediately, like he'd been repeating that phrase to himself for hours. "I should – I shouldn't have been so angry. He doesn't deserve me to be -"

_Yes, he does, _again the words flitted through Sam's mind, but he kept silent. Dean wouldn't want to hear that. Not now. Not ever. "Remember that time he almost drowned us in Michigan." Sam pointed out instead, "We were what? Fifteen and eleven?"

Dean was silent for a long moment, then he corrected, "Fourteen and ten." Another pause, "And that was different, he was possessed by a ghost . . ."

"No less fucked up, though," Sam interrupted, his voice unyielding. "There was that time he left us up in that light house with the poltergeist and no supplies for an entire night; we were . . . nine and thirteen?"

"Eight and twelve," Dean corrected again. "And he didn't know -"

"It practically _impaled _you. You nearly _bled to death_."

"Sam, Dad -"

"It hasn't always been Dad; what about that time his _trusted _friend locked us in that boiler room, when the thing was about to explode? The steam nearly killed us both."

Dean was silent again, then, "Dad almost killed him for that," he said softly.

"But he didn't. Because he remembered it hadn't been his fault, that the man had been -"

"I wasn't -"

"You were under supernatural influence," Sam insisted.

The line was silent for a long moment. Then Dean's voice filtered through, so soft Sam could barely hear it.

"The things I said, Sam – about – him and – us – and . . ." he heard his brother's breath catch. "About Mom . . . he's never going to – he won't ever . . ."

"He will, Dean." Sam comforted. _He'd better, _he thought furiously, clenching his empty hand into a fist, digging his nails into the palm of his hand. With everything Dean had done for their father, his entire life laid at the man's feet-- their Dad better sure as hell forgive Dean for something that was out of his control.

"I don't think -"

"What if it'd been me?" Sam asked, and was met with silence. "What if it had happened to me? What if I'd said something cruel or hurt you that way? Wouldn't you forgive me?"

"Of course." The answer was quick and steady and a small smile tugged at Sam's mouth.

"Because it wouldn't have been my fault? Because it would have been out of my control?"

There was no answer to this and Sam's smile faded, anxiety suddenly sweeping over him. He was about to say more when Dean spoke.

"I would forgive you."

The words were steady, but they didn't ease Sam's concern. Dean hadn't answered the questions, not really.

Still, this wasn't about him.

"Dad forgives you, Dean," he whispered. _And screw him if he doesn't_, Sam thought viciously. "He does."

"I – I have to go, Sam."

Panic exploded in him without warning. "Dean -"

"Have – have a good time tomorrow -"

"No! You can't – don't -"

"I'll see ya, Sammy."

"Dean, don't hang -"

His answer was a dial tone. It took every ounce of self control he possessed to not launch the cell phone into a wall. "_Dammit!" _Sam growled.

He left his study, slamming the door behind him; Jess startled when he strode into the living room. "Where's my computer?" he asked.

She was wide-eyed and he realized he might have bellowed that.

"What's wrong?" she asked tentatively, eyeing him the way you did a wild animal set loose.

"Dean's a fuckin' MORON, that's what's wrong! And Dad is – a JERK! That's what he is, a FUCKIN' JERK! Where's my computer?" he snarled, stalking around the living room.

"Kitchen," she answered quickly, frowning. He was freaking out and he couldn't help it, didn't have the time to even try.

He shoved the kitchen door open, found the laptop on the kitchen table and was headed towards his study again when he heard her.

"Sam." His name was deceptively soft on her lips and he froze.

"What's going on?" she asked him, her gaze was fastened on him steadily. Her pointed tone telling him _talk now_ or she'd ask and ask and ask until his brain bled.

He took a deep breath and released in slowly, feeling his heart thudding as he gripped the laptop with one hand. "Dean, he – and – Dad – they had an argument," he almost chuckled at the understatement, but Jess was nodding and he forced himself to continue. "Dean's taking it hard."

Her head tilted to one side. "Oh," she whispered after a long moment.

"I'm going to Illinois for the weekend." He added and then almost cringed, that had come out wrong, he thought immediately. Too much _I _and not enough _we, _Jess bristled at things like that. Decisions that affected _their _life made with only _I _in mind. He waited for the explosion, he'd take it, handle it; but he wasn't backing down.

He was going to Illinois and he didn't care that Dad was there – in fact he _hoped _Dad would be there so that he could give the man a piece of his mind for letting Dean doubt his forgiveness.

Forgiveness that John Winchester sure as hell better _not _be withholding from his son. Because if there was anyone, _anyone, _on God's green Earth who had absolutely _no right _to hold a grudge against Dean, it would be their father.

"Want me to do that so you can pack?" she asked, motioning towards the computer.

He blinked at her, she was watching him closely her gaze softer than what he'd expected.

"Um – yeah, okay. Sure." He handed it over.

Blonde curls nodded and she moved back to the sofa. "What city?" she asked a few seconds later.

He was silent. That was it? No lecture?

"Sam?"

"Huh?"

"What city?"

"Uh – Rockford."

"'Kay. Start packing, dude."

He stared at the back of her head for a moment, not knowing exactly what to say.

"There's a flight leaving for Chicago in an hour. I can call ahead and have a car rented for you that you can pick up at the airport," she murmured, clicking a few buttons. He was still staring.

"Sam?" she asked, turning around to look at him. "Is that okay?"

He blinked. "Yeah, yeah, that's great, actually. Thanks."

She offered him a small smile, "No problem."

He nodded, yeah – packing.

* * *

On some level Sam knew it should bother him that he'd been able to so perfectly track his Dad and brother. It should bother him that rifling through random news reports centered in Rockford, Illinois had landed him three possible supernatural events in the past two months; that he'd easily been able to decide which his Dad would deem necessary to deal with. It should bother him that he figured out fairly easily what kind of motel they'd stop at and that he'd been able to obtain verification of this with a simple phone call – and lying that had come more easily and naturally than it really should.

It should bother him that he could slip into Dad's training so easily he barely noticed it.

It all _should _bother him.

At the moment, though, it didn't.

At the moment, he was just glad to see the Impala parked in the lot of the Rest Easy Motel.

He didn't give himself a chance to think about it. If he thought about he'd back out – and he'd come all this way. Sam parked the rental car and headed for the room number he'd obtained from the clerk.

Sam knocked hard and quick and didn't let himself think of what he'd say if he came face-to-face with his dad.

Dean opened the door.

"Holy shit," he hissed, all hesitancy vanishing as he stared at his brother.

"Sam? What -"

"What the hell happened to your face!?" Sam interrupted, staring at Dean.

The entire left side of his brother's face was swollen; a dark, angry bruise starting at his jaw, spreading upwards and out.

Dean scowled. "What are you doing here?" he asked, stepping aside.

Sam walked in and looked around the small room, "Where's Dad?"

"He went out. What. Are. You. Doing. _Here?"_

"So he's not that hurt, then, is he?"

"What?" Dean was blinking at him blankly and Sam felt pin pricks of concern.

"Do you have a concussion or something?" he asked, reaching to grasp Dean's chin.

Dean pulled away, turning away from Sam, "You shouldn't have come here. I don't want you here."

The words stung and Sam drew back. "Dude – you just . . . you sounded -"

"I didn't ask you to come, Sam. You shouldn't be here. Your bachelor party starts tomorrow."

Dean wasn't facing him and the words were rushed, forced. His brother was _really _upset; Sam could sense it, feel it in the air as easily as he knew when Dean was excited. "I just wanted to make sure you were okay," he offered. Sometimes the truth was easiest.

"I told you I was."

"And I told you I'd come to Illinois if I had to."

Dean whirled on him. "What do you want me to say, Sam?! I _shot _Dad! I told him that he'd done a piss-poor job of raising us! That he drove you away! That Mom – that Mom . . ." he trailed off and Sam's heart constricted at how close to tears Dean sounded.

If it had to do with Mom . . . Mom was a button Dean had no defense against.

He moved around Dean, stood in front of him, reached out and grabbed his brother's shoulders. "Jobs get fucked up," he repeated, shaking him gently. "It happens."

Dean wasn't hearing him.

"Dean," Sam called, gripping his brother's shoulders a bit tighter. "_Listen _to me. You know it happens."

"I know, Sam, I know. I just . . ." he shook his head, refusing to meet Sam's gaze. "It was bad," he said softly after a long moment, "It was bad."

Dean pulled himself away after that.

The room was silent. Sam wracked his brain for something to say, for a way to make this better. "Where'd he go?" came out instead.

Dean shrugged, still not facing Sam. "I dunno. We – I was on the phone with Jess when he left . . . and we haven't – I mean we've talked . . . but we haven't . . . I don't know where he went." Dean paused, took a deep breath, then continued. "He's on a hunt now though. So you can sit if you want. He won't be back."

Sam stared at him, trying to grasp exactly what Dean was saying. Their father had left and had just . . . not come back . . . and he'd what? Called Dean from the road? It was _very _likely that the man deserved every word Dean had said. Dean wouldn't appreciate hearing that, though – so Sam moved and sat on one of the beds.

"He tell you what? Or where?" Sam asked, feeling like he should drop the subject, but unable to.

Dean shook his head, "Naw, said he'd call when he had something for me."

Dean's voice was still quiet and Sam wouldn't mind having his own loaded salt gun aimed at his father right now.

"Dad's never been good with sharing plans," he offered instead.

Dean nodded; he still wasn't facing Sam. Sam studied his profile. The small room was silent and Sam let it stretch, let it enfold them – together. As long as Dean knew that Sam was there, _right _there, it would be okay.

"I'm fine, Sam," Dean said after several minutes.

Sam nodded, "I know." Dean was always _fine. _

"Then what are you doing here?" his brother asked, finally turning towards him. The answer to this question was the difference between Dean throwing him out on his ass or accepting his company, he knew that.

He had to handle it carefully. _You sounded so fuckin' freaked out that I thought you were having a breakdown of some kind _probably wouldn't go over that well.

He smirked instead, "You are so totally not getting out of the bachelor party, dude," he drawled. "You're the best man – and you talked me into a concert."

Dean sent a wan smirk back at him. "You'll have fun."

"_We'll _have fun," Sam corrected, standing. "Dad's gone anyway... what's to stop you?"

He saw Dean swallow. Saw the small shrug, the way his eyes dropped again. Guilt. Guilt was stopping him.

Sam took a deep breath. Time to take the gamble. "Stop being a big girl," he teased. "You gonna stay here all weekend and _cry _about it?"

Dean's head shot up. Sam grinned at him, "Or you gonna be a Winchester about it and pretend it never happened?"

Dean stared at him for a long moment and Sam held his breath.

"You can be a real shit sometimes, you know that, Sam?" Dean growled, eyes dark and narrowed.

Sam's breath left him on a rush and he winced. Gamble lost, then. "Dean -"

"Why don't you _leave_. I didn't ask you to come out here. Hell, I told you I was _fine. _I _am _fine."

"If you were fine, you'd come back with me. If you were fine you wouldn't be acting like this! So you got possessed -"

"I WASN'T POSSESSED!"

The words might have shaken the small room – they certainly shook Sam. The anger, the recrimination in that tone shook him. He took a step forward. Dean took a step back.

"I wasn't," his brother repeated. "They were _my _thoughts. _Mine. _And Dad knows that. And -" he cut himself off, running a hand through short hair. Dean looked miserable and Sam's heart constricted.

"No. No way. Do _not _do this to yourself," Sam scowled. "I'm not _letting _you do this to yourself. It was _supernatural, _it _made _you say those things, it was beyond your control -"

"I screwed up and Dad got hurt!"

"You're human! That's OKAY! _He _screws up all the time! He got _us _hurt all the time! Or don't you remember that?!" he yelled. "Did you hear a single word I said to you on the phone?!"

"I told him Mom would be horrified at what he'd become, that he'd let her down." He confessed it quietly, wide eyes fastened on Sam, waiting for his brother's reaction.

For a moment Sam was breathless; for a moment he heard those words as his father would have, felt the sucker punch knock the air out of his lungs. He heard them as Dean heard them, torn from the deepest, darkest corner of his soul and flung at the person he admired the most; Sam cringed.

He met his brother's gaze and let the wince show. "Ouch," he whispered softly.

Dean stared at him a moment longer and then he released a small rush of air, a tilt to his lips almost looking like a smirk. "Yeah."

Sam released a breath of his own and wondered if Dean really believed that; he knew he'd never ask.

Instead he offered another smile, "Come on, man. I have the tickets . . . let's just – you and me."

A smirk touched Dean's lips. "Dude. Jake'll have kittens."

Sam shrugged, smiling. "So? I'm the groom. It's my party and all that . . ." he let the words trail off.

Dean shook his head, but he was looking more relaxed and Sam felt the tension leak out of him too.

"You didn't need to come out here, Sam."

"I know – you just . . . I knew you were gonna . . . mope and I wanted a front row seat."

Dean's eyebrows shot to his hair and Sam grinned.

"_Mope? _I do NOT mope!" he defended.

"If it'd been me you wouldn't let me mope," Sam insisted, ignoring the protest. "And . . . just you and me on a little road-trip? I can think of worse ways to spend a weekend," he finished, ducking his head and shrugging a little; feeling sheepish even before he stopped talking.

The motel room was silent and he was starting to wonder if maybe Dean was _still _dwelling on this when an arm wrapped around his shoulders. "Aw, Samantha, are you asking me out on a date?"

It was a perfectly _Dean _thing to say and Sam laughed, relived-- happy. "Oh yeah, that shiner on your face has me in palpitations. What the hell happened?" He asked.

Dean shrugged. "Figured I'd at least give you a _chance _with the ladies this weekend."

Sam eyed him for a moment. Then let it go; after all, that was what he wanted Dean to do, to just let his case go. "Have you _seen _yourself?"

"Better'n you on your best day, Sammy-girl," Dean drawled, moving around him to start packing. "Speakin' of girls – how's Jessy?"

Sam rolled his eyes as he picked up a t-shirt from the floor and tossed it at Dean. "_Jess _is fine," he answered.

"Surprised she okay'd this little field trip."

Sam smiled. Dean was still packing, but his focus was on Sam, Sam could _feel _it. "You completely freaked her out by sounding _normal _on the phone," he answered.

Dean looked up and scowled. "I'm always normal on the phone!"

"You recite Zeppelin lyrics to her."

"Why's that not normal?"

Sam rolled his eyes, "Ready to go?"

Dean zipped his bag up and straightened. "Always ready."

Sam smirked and turned towards the door. "Then let's get a move on. We've got half a day to get on schedule."

"The guys are gonna kill you."

"S'a good thing I have you to protect me then, huh?" The words slipped out and Sam pretended not to notice the way Dean paused in following him from the room.

He wasn't at all surprised when his brother's hand dropped on his shoulder and squeezed. Or a moment later when Dean remarked, "Wuss," in a teasing tone.

* * *


	2. The Beach Trip

**  
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**Disclaimer: **I do not own Supernatural, nor do I own the "I don't do shorts..." line.

**Summary: **Jess convinces the guys to go to the beach.

**Author's Note**: I hope you all enjoy!

* * *

"Get up." 

The words were accompanied by persistent tugging on his very warm and comfortable blanket. He groaned in protest. "Jess..."

"Come on, Sam," she insisted, pulling a bit harder. "Dean's here today, remember?"

Sam nodded his head against the pillow, still not letting the blanket go. The room was that pleasantly _chilled _temperature that air conditioners achieved in the dead of summer, and the bed was soft, and he'd waited up for Dean – who had arrived after 3 in the morning.

"I remember," he murmured. "He's asleep too..."

"It's ten-thirty, come on," she added, tugging his arm now. "It's Sunday."

"No . . ."

"Sam . . ."

"Go away," he grumbled, pulling his arm out of her grasp and turning away from her.

"Sam!"

"Go away," he repeated.

She glared at his back, then hissed, "FINE!" through gritted teeth, annoyance dripping from the word. Jess huffed out of the room, letting the door slam in her wake.

Behind her Sam didn't even stir.

Down the hallway and into the living room she found Dean, sprawled out on the sofa bed, lying on his stomach and out like a light.

"Dean, get up," she said, standing over him.

He didn't stir.

"Dean!" she tried again.

He mumbled something and lifted his head, eyeing her blearily. "Wha's 'rong?"

"Nothing, I just -"

His head dropped back to the pillow before she could finish and he turned away from her.

"Dean! Get up!"

"No . . ."

"Come on!"

"No . . ." he grumbled.

"You're supposed to be visiting us!" she cried, getting annoyed at him too.

"Visit you later . . ."

"It's ten-thirty!"

"Tha's nice . . ."

"Come on!"

"Go 'way," he echoed Sam, burrowing into the mattress.

"It's Sunday!"

"Go away," he repeated, shifting away from the side of the bed she was standing near.

She glared at his back. Then huffed out of the living room into the kitchen, slamming the door as she left. Behind her, Dean didn't even stir.

Jess could hear them clearly from the living room. Which was actually pretty amusing, because she was sure that they thought they were whispering.

They also thought she was mad at them.

Granted, Jess had been more than a little _miffed _with them earlier.

She'd spent the morning stomping around the apartment and slamming doors and _nothing_. Neither of them had stirred.

Okay, so yeah . . . Dean had come in well after two o'clock, which is when she'd gone to bed. And, true – they always stayed up and talked about those Winchester World Secrets, but still . . . it was _Sunday _and they'd both just lain there like slugs, _ignoring _her.

They were all supposed to have gone to a resort and spa today, and she'd had to tell the others to go ahead without them because _the boys _were out cold.

So yes, earlier she had been a bit pissed. But _now_ . . . now, she had a new plan; and the more pissed they thought she was, the greater her likelihood of success.

"So what's _wrong _with her?" she heard Dean ask .

"I don't know!" Sam responded urgently. Jess could practically _feel _them staring at the living room door.

"Is it one of those emo-women days that you were supposed to remember?"

Ah, her brother-in-law and his way with words. She smiled at how disgusted he sounded.

"I don't think so . . ."

Her smile grew as she could practically _hear_ Sam running through a list of _emo-women days _in his head.

"First time you met?" Dean asked, apparently trying to help Sam get through the list.

"September."

"First Date?"

"October."

"First kiss."

There was a pause, then, "September."

Now, she could practically _feel _Dean arch an eyebrow. "First time you had se--"

"DEAN!"

A chuckle.

Jess rolled her eyes.

"I'm just askin' . . ."

"Well, don't – and _no,"_ Sam responded.

There was another pause, then, "Birthday?"

"April."

"Some Hallmark holiday?"

"Dude, Valentine's Day is in February."

"I know that! I'm not an idiot! I'm just thinkin' maybe there's another one or something!"

She heard Sam huff, "Well, there isn't."

"So what's wrong with her?"

"I don't _know." _

There was a pause then, "Are you _sure_ it's not an anniversary?" Dean asked.

And when Sam didn't respond, but seemed to be going through the list again, it dawned on her that they were just going to keep going in circles with this.

"Maybe when _you _remember you first met is not when SHE remembers you first met," Dean encouraged.

"We were in the same class. We had a project -"

"IT'S NOT AN ANNIVERSARY!" Jess yelled from the living room, rolling her eyes. There were days when she looked at them and marveled at how they could _possibly _even be related, let alone brothers; and then there were days like today when she honestly thought they shared a brain.

There was a pause and then the door swung open. Quickly, she adjusted her expression to fit the model of abject misery. Sam strode in, Dean following close on his heels. The boys sat on the sofa across from her.

She glared at them.

"Jess, what's wrong?" Sam asked, giving her his worried look.

And she almost caved right then, because he looked so _sorry_ . . .

But success of her plan depended on this so she narrowed her eyes instead. "You should _know," _she snapped.

That always worked.

Sam glanced at Dean quickly and Dean sent him a swift look back. A swift look that looked sort of – reassuring.

Then he was looking at her and Jess found herself looking back. Her glare faltered a bit at the intensity of that gaze – she almost felt like he could see right through her.

Dean offered her a small smile. "Oh, come on, Jessy . . ." he murmured. "Give us a hint and we'll fix it."

She looked to Sam and he was looking at her _so _earnestly and again – she almost caved.

Instead she made herself scowl. "You can't fix it."

In the bat of an eyelash Dean's look became serious somehow. "If you tell me what's wrong, I'll fix it."

This time when Jess looked to Sam he was nodding earnestly, almost vigorously, and Dean was looking at her with that almost startling seriousness, his gaze as steady as his words.

She couldn't help it.

A smile broke across her face. That's what they'd been like, she thought suddenly, and was sure of it. Dean prepared to _fix _anything that was wrong and Sam utterly confident that Dean could; and it was just . . . so . . . _adorable._

How was she supposed to be pissed with that?

"Sometimes I swear the two of you together are gonna give me a cavity," Jess murmured, abandoning her plan.

They blinked at her. Then frowned. Then looked at each other, then looked back at her.

"What's going on?" Sam asked, suspiciously now.

Oh yeah, her boy was sharp as a tack.

"Are you pissed or not?" Dean asked.

Jess laughed; she couldn't help it. "We were supposed to go to that spa today," she reminded Sam.

Sam's eyes widened. "Oh, right," he drawled, turning to Dean. "THANK YOU, from the depths of my SOUL, for showing up this weekend."

Dean laughed.

Jess scowled – for real this time. "You were looking forward to it!" she accused.

"Yeah, like a root canal -"

"Sam!"

"A mud wrap! You said they were gonna wrap us in MUD and I couldn't even be in the room when they wrap _you _in mud, because its guys go one place and girls go another . . ."

Dean laughed again. "Hey, maybe I should get going and that way you two can catch up to the others."

"No WAY!"

"You were coming too!"

They'd spoken at the same time and Dean laughed again, looking at Jess, then at Sam, and finally back to her. "In your dreams, babe. No way would I go to a _spa." _

Jess rolled her eyes. "Well since the two of you were doing coma-patient impressions this morning it's a moot point. There IS another point though!" she told them.

"Uh-oh," Sam stated. "I'm guessing the other point has to with the act -"

"I want to go to the beach."

They stared, as though she'd just told them she wanted _The Car _repainted in a shade of bubblegum pink

Sam glanced at Dean, then back to her, "The beach?"

She nodded, chuckling, "Yeah, you know. Water, sandy . . ."

"Yeeeeaaah . . . so you have fun with that," Dean drawled.

Sam nodded. "Yeah. Uh, I thought Lacey and Kerrie were at the spa too? Who're you goin' with?"

She blinked at him.

Oh yeah, sharp as a tack, her boy.

"YOU," she stated, then looked at Dean. "You too. All three of us."

Again, that blank stare. Then they looked at each other and as usual she got the feeling that she was watching a telepathic conversation take place.

"I don't think so, Jess," Sam stated.

"Why not?"

"Because . . . the beach . . . it's not . . ."

"It'll be fun! We'll go swimming and pack food and just spend the day there. You guys can take the football or something and I'll take a book and we'll just chill in the sun!" she offered. She'd been thinking about it all morning; this would be fun.

And it would give her a chance to hang out with them – just them. She'd yet to do that.

They shared another look. Then Dean shook his head, and stood from the sofa. "I don't do the beach, Jessy," he murmured.

She stood too. "What d'you mean you don't do the beach? Everybody does the beach! It's the BEACH!" Jess turned to Sam. "What does he mean?"

Sam stood too. "Uh . . . it means he doesn't like the beach . . ."

"Why not?" she asked. Then Jess realized she was still looking at Sam, so she transferred her gaze to Dean. "Why not? Sam likes the beach, we go to the beach sometimes . . . Sam'll come, won't you?" she asked, shifting towards Sam again.

Sam shrugged, he looked a bit uncomfortable.

As if she'd placed him in a really difficult situation – which it _wasn't, _it was just a little trip to the beach.

It was a totally normal thing to do.

Sam swallowed hard. "Uh, well . . . I guess . . . If Dean wants, yeah, sure," he murmured.

She nodded and whirled back to Dean. "See?".

Dean shrugged, "Not my kinda thing."

Jess narrowed her eyes; there was _totally _something going on here. "Not your kinda thing? There's gonna be barely clad women walking around. How is that not your kinda thing?"

She heard Sam chuckle behind her.

"Too much . . ." Dean paused, and she knew he was grasping at straws. "Sun."

"You could use a tan."

"Sun is bad. Skin cancer."

"Dean."

"I don't do the beach, Jess."

"That's what you said about the Film Festival -"

"Yeah, okay, but -"

"And the Music Festival -"

"I know, but that -"

"And the Art show -"

"Ah! Ah!" he cried loudly, cutting her off and raising both hands to stop her from interrupting him. "That WASN'T my thing! I nearly _died _of boredom!"

Jess smiled at that. The image of Dean in his leather jacket and biker boots scowling at a bowl and asking if that was supposed to be art was one of her favorite memories.

"Two outta three isn't bad," Sam offered, coming up behind her.

"It'll be _fuuunnn_ . . ." she drawled.

"I don't have beach kinda clothes," Dean grumbled, shifting slightly from foot to foot.

"Sam can lend you some shorts."

Instead of looking a bit more convinced, Dean's scowl intensified. " Sweetheart, I don't do shorts."

"You can't go to the beach in jeans, Dean."

"Which means I can't go to the beach!" he cried triumphantly.

"Dean . . ." she drawled, preparing to pull out the big guns. She'd seen Sam do this about a hundred thousand times already and it always worked. She blinked wide eyes up at him. "I really want to go . . . and I want _you _to come with me . . . you and Sam . . . it'll be a family day . . ." blink the wide eyes again, "Puh-lease..." she murmured.

He frowned at her, but she could see him wavering already. It had worked.

Dean was a sucker for puppy-dog eyes and an earnest, drawn-out _please. _He would never admit it, of course; he'd deny it to his dying day, but it was true. And it would come in SO handy for the woman he fell in love with.

"There'll be women in bikinis . . ." Sam prodded, sensing his brother's shift.

Dean's frown intensified, but Jess knew they'd won.

He was starting to look like a pouting five year old. He and Sam had that in common; once you'd convinced them to do something they didn't really _want _to do, they all of a sudden looked about five years old.

"But I HATE wearing shorts!" he griped. Jess almost expected him to stamp his foot.

"Yeah, his legs aren't as great lookin' as mine," Sam commented seriously. "Kinda scrawny, actually, so it's understandable that he doesn't like to -"

"There is NOTHING wrong with my legs!" Dean interrupted, outraged. "I have GREAT legs! Have you even SEEN my legs, women _fawn _over my legs, they -"

"Prove it."

Sam made no attempt to hide the smug tone in his voice and Dean's glare could have melted silver. Jess laughed. "I'll go start packing the food. You two go pack," she said as she headed towards the kitchen.

Behind her Dean continued to defend his legs and Sam laughed at him.

* * *


	3. Middle Ground

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Supernatural or Sam or much to my regret, Dean.

**Story Summary**: Dad finds out Dean has been seeing Sam. Dean's POV.

**Author's Note**: It's shorter than what I anticipated, but when I got to writing the guys just didn't have much to say about it. I hope you enjoy this! Reviews are always appreciated!

* * *

He'd been expecting it. Anticipating the moment, the instant when it would all come to a head. Preparing for betrayed eyes, a furious glare, irrational rage; for the _pain _that would be laid bare and exposed. Planning the arguments, the speeches, the rationalizations he'd lay out in response; strengthening his resolve that he was doing nothing wrong. Dean was an adult, and he was doing nothing wrong. He was an adult – 

When the time finally came – he was seven and had forgotten to sharpen his knife before putting it away.

"What the hell is THIS?"

The roar almost made him flinch and he was sure the cheap motel walls shook.

It was one thing he had learned to appreciate about his father – John Winchester didn't pussy-foot around. He said what he meant and when he was pissed, he let you know.

Dean stared at the photograph his Dad was holding. He'd been positive that picture had been on the kitchen table when he'd left Sam's apartment, along with the rest of the pictures of that day.

A day at the beach.

A picture of him, with Sam and Jess.

Jess had developed doubles of it, insisting that Dean take one with him. He'd said no. She'd agreed. Sam had warned him that Jess never gave in that easily.

"I asked you a QUESTION, Dean! What the FUCK _IS _THIS?"

Dean took a deep breath and reminded himself – he was an adult, he'd done nothing wrong. "A picture," he answered carefully as he finished walking into the room.

"You wanna tell me what the FUCK it means! 'Cause I'm pretty damn sure this picture was taken RECENTLY!"

. . ._ done nothing wrong _. . .

He nodded, his calm belying the way his heart was hammering in his chest. "Last weekend, actually."

"This is SAM!"

"Glad to see you still recognize him."

His father moved to stand in front of him so quickly he startled back a bit. A moment later, though, he lifted his gaze to meet the older man's.

"Watch the attitude," his Dad hissed, narrowing his gaze.

"Yes, Sir." The response was automatic and his gaze dropped instinctively; his resolve wavering beneath the dark, furious glare which was a trademark of John Winchester.

It didn't matter how many reasons and justifications and explanations he had. He could tell himself millions of times that he'd done nothing wrong. He could repeat over and over that he was an adult and accountable to no one, or that his father met up with people all the time and didn't tell him. In the end it didn't matter.

In the end he'd done something wrong, because that was how his father saw it.

"How long?"

The question was softer, but no less furious and Dean forced himself to look back up. "Five weeks," he answered firmly.

His Dad made a hissing sound and abruptly turned away from him, "And when the HELL were you plannin' on tellin' me you were SEEING SAM!"

Anger flared briefly at the accusation. "I don't know, Dad. The whopping _two _times I've seen YOU in the past five weeks have been full of time to talk."

The older man spun back to face him so quickly it was a miracle he didn't trip over his own feet. "Saving lives interrupting your social life, Dean?" Dad hissed.

And this time Dean did flinch.

His father wasn't pulling punches with this.

"You aren't exactly receptive to topics that have to do with Sam, Dad," he tried, a bit more gently.

"And you KNOW why that is!"

"He -"

"Walked out! HE WALKED OUT!"

"And YOU slammed the door shut -"

It was the first time he'd ever said those words out loud.

His father's eyes widened for half a second and he knew he'd surprised the man. A moment later the glare narrowed and the man roared, "_HE _MADE HIS CHOICE!"

Dean felt that flare of anger again. Those words didn't cut it anymore. "_YOU _FORCED HIM TOO!"

"YOU THINK THIS _MY _FAULT! I'M NOT THE ONE WHO TURNED HIS BACK ON FAMILY, DEAN! YOUR BELOVED BABY BROTHER IS! HE FUCKIN' _LEFT US! _OR DID YOU FORGET THAT!"

His breath left him in a rush. Leave it to Dad to jab right at the center of the wound. "I didn't forget," he answered tiredly, feeling a sense of déjà vu wash over him. This conversation was about to take a wretchedly familiar term.

"He wants MORE than this, REMEMBER? He thinks our LIFE is BULLSHIT. A FRUITLESS quest we're DELUDING ourselves with! Any of this ringing a fuckin' bell in your head!"

"I remember you weren't exactly silent during all that either," Dean murmured.

"THIS is NOT my fault!"

"And I am NOT going to apologize for seeing MY BROTHER!"

The roar shocked them both. It burst out of him with so much ferocity he might have shaken the walls himself.

There was silence after those words. The kind you can feel and taste, it's so thick in the air. It was stagnant; pressing on them, weighed down with the resentments and anger of the night that had severed their family.

Dean was breathing hard; adrenaline pumping through his system as if a Black Dog were chasing him, _fight / flight _humming through his veins.

He clenched his fists and fought. "And I'm not going to stop either," Dean announced carefully.

Something shifted in his father's stance, nothing as dramatic as defeat or even resignation, but _something_ nonetheless. The older man spoke into the silence. "Sam made his choice."

"Why does it have to be a choice? Why can't -"

"Because it does. Let me know if you want to make one."

Another jab to the gut from, Dad.

The words were unyielding.

An ultimatum as final as the one he'd given Sam. And it _hurt _because Sam had worked steadily, for _years, _towards that ultimatum. But Dean never had.

He didn't defy or question; he followed orders... he didn't deserve that. Dean felt his own glare intensify. He didn't deserve to be provoked like that, to be challenged into making a choice and the fact that his father even _went _there set his teeth on edge.

He didn't deserve it and Dad _knew _that.

"I will let you know," Dean responded steadily, his tone clearly telling his father that he would never make that choice.

The room was silent again. They studied each other, Dean conveying his message and his Dad scanning his face as if searching for something; dark eyes intent and mouth drawn into a tight line.

Then abruptly the older man tossed the picture he held onto one of the beds. It fluttered quietly onto the mattress. "I've got a job in Georgia for you. Be ready to leave in an hour."

An order given and with it his dad turned around, heading for the door – the conversation was over. Dean felt himself deflate; the breath leaving his body in a rush.

Was that it?

He'd been geared up for . . . for _more_ . . .

For yelling and screaming and a chance to state his case, a chance to explain and maybe, just _maybe _get his Dad to shift a little . . . to just acknowledge that middle ground existed.

Not for this . . . for outraged questions and quiet, intent looks; for quiet acceptance and definite avoidance. His Dad hadn't even _asked _about Sam, about the girl in the picture, about _anything_.

"He graduated," Dean whispered before his father could leave the room; because dammit Dad should _want _to know. "He -"

"Made his choice," Dad cut him off, hand on the doorknob, facing the door. "Sam made his choice. He chose to leave, to live his life away from us. He left."

A moment later his father was gone and he was alone in the room.

That was all there was to it, then.

Sam had left and Dad couldn't forgive that. Dad didn't do middle ground.

Dean wasn't sure how long he stood there before realizing that time was ticking away. He drew in a deep breath and then walked over to the bed.

Slowly, he reached down and took the picture. It was crumpled on one side, where Dad had gripped it, but it was still good – still a beautiful shot.

Georgia was far. He would have to call Sam and tell him not to expect a visit for a little while.

Dean placed the picture on the end table and smoothed it out with his hand. He noticed then that there was something written on the back. Scrawled in the loopy lettering of his almost sister-in-law were the words:

_Dean, "Sammy", and Jess_

_On our 1st Family Beach Trip_

_July 24th, 2006_

She'd kept going on and on about how they would do these trips every summer. It had been the first time they'd gone somewhere, just the three of them, and she'd spent the entire day teasing them about finally being given a visitor's pass into the Winchester World.

He'd told her that Rule Number 1 in the Winchester World was quite simple: Sam was always _Sammy_,no matter what he said.

The memory of her laughter, of Sam's indignant sputtering, made him smile.

Dean had a lot of faith in his father. A lot of trust in the man's decisions and judgments. He knew, though, that in this his father was wrong.

Sam wasn't the only one to make a choice that night. Dad had too. They'd both made stupid choices, if you asked him – choices made in anger. Choices made without real thought, without the future in mind.

He couldn't help but feel a measure of pride in Sam, though.

Sam was willing to try. Dad was not.

It said something about the younger man that he was willing to step back and admit he'd done something wrong.

It said something about Dad that he wouldn't back down even when he held in his hand the proof that he was wrong.

And he knew it said something about him that he would walk the fine line between them for as long as it took. He would visit Sam and take beach trips; he would hunt with Dad and follow orders.

For as long as they needed it, he would be their middle ground.

* * *


	4. Translation

**  
**

**Disclaimer: **I do not own "Supernatural"

**Summary: **Jess has a few questions about Dean.

* * *

"God, this paper is killing me. I can't believe how impossible it is to get current, reliable sources. NOBODY fact-checks anymore! It's ridiculous!" Sam grumbled as he dropped down on the sofa next to Jess.

She was curled up on the cushions, her feet tucked beneath her. She'd been reading a paperback a few hours ago when he'd retreated to the study. Sam searched for it and found it face-down on the coffee table. "No good?" he asked, motioning towards the book.

She smirked a little. "It's fine. Perfect brain-candy." The words were soft, though, and she didn't meet his gaze.

"So what's up? You usually jump right in on my _the-deterioration-of-the-U.S.-academia _spiel -"

"Just got off the phone with Jilly."

Sam felt his mouth go dry. "Oh, boy. What now?" he asked, wryly. "Is the shade of my brown hair still too non-descript for her?"

Jess offered him a small smile. "She called to say she was wrong."

"What! Seriously?" he squeaked. "And you didn't put her on speaker phone?"

"She wants to come meet Dean. She said that she's thrilled I've gotten to know your brother."

Sam blinked in surprise. It hadn't occurred to him that Jess would talk to Jill about Dean. He swallowed hard suddenly. "Um, well . . . he's not gonna – he said he was goin' to Georgia, remember?" he murmured, quickly running through his mind all the blackmail material he'd have to use to get Dean to come have dinner with Jess's sister.

"Yeah. Georgia . . . on a job."

His thoughts halted abruptly. It was the way she said those three words, _on a job, _that alerted him to the level of _wrongness _here. It was high, past orange . . . maybe red.

"I told Jill I didn't think it was a good idea," she continued. "Jill insisted, and we got into an argument."

Sam's eyes widened a little. It wasn't unusual for Jess to get into an argument with her sister. It _was_ unusual for it not to be resolved in the same phone call, though.

"It's kinda ironic," she continued after a moment, and Sam's hands started sweating. "She calls to tell me I have no business marrying you when I don't know anything about you -"

His eyes widened at that; where the hell did Jill get off? Sam opened his mouth, but Jess continued without giving him a chance to speak.

"- and I tell her to go to hell and list all the reasons I _do_ have to marry you. I tell her all the things I _do _know about you. How wonderful you are and how smart and determined; how happy you make me, how safe you make me feel."

His mouth closed and he smiled at her a little; she didn't smile back.

"But when she calls to tell that she was wrong, that maybe you aren't harboring a secret life of crime, and that she's so happy I'm getting to know your brother. When she calls to say that she wants us all to get together . . . I have nothing to say."

Jess sounded so sad and lost that Sam's heart thudded. He took a deep breath and reached out to take her hand. He squeezed her fingers a little. "Help me out here, baby, 'cause I'm lost . . . what's wrong?"

She gazed at him for a moment and Sam's heart beat faster. What was going on here? What had Jill said? Why was Jess so quiet?

"Am I really?" she asked after a moment, and Sam was so relieved that she spoke, it took him a moment to register the weariness in her tone.

Sam swallowed hard. "Are you really what?" he asked softly.

"Am I really getting to know your brother?"

His breath left him in a rush and he pulled his hand back from hers as if he'd been burned. "What?" The word left his lips on a gasp and the meter on the level of _wrongness _blew past red and off the charts.

_Oh god._

He should have known.

Christ, in a way, he had known.

It had been a fantastic summer; more than that even. It had been ideal. An unexpected gift bestowed on him by an unknown deity – fate, God maybe . . . it didn't matter. All he knew was that for one amazing summer he'd had the best of both worlds with no strings; no questions asked, no explanations necessary.

Maybe it had been the high of graduation and the upcoming wedding, the high of new jobs and new phases of relationships; but Jess, his friends too, had been so _easy _with Dean. Nothing but laughter and teasing, questions about childhood pranks and punishments – nothing serious, nothing that couldn't be evaded with a hilarious anecdote.

He'd seen it coming though . . . the end. Far off at first, but it had been speeding closer lately.

The glamour of the summer was fading, and he'd seen Jess's questions.

He should have known this was coming.

The way Jess stared at him when he announced that Dean was in the area. The look in her eyes when Dean left; the way she watched the efficient way he packed and unpacked. The way she studied the faded scars on his chest and legs, and Sam knew she was mentally comparing them to the ones on his own body. The way she eyed them both after they spent a few hours in his study alone – questions, so many questions.

But she'd held her tongue. Sam didn't know why, but she had.

Until now.

He'd known this was coming – you'd think he would have been prepared . . .

Jess shrugged a little. "Am I really?" she asked again.

"You... you know Dean," Sam answered softly, swallowing hard. It was true, maybe not _completely_, but she did know him. "You do," he added for emphasis.

It garnered a small smile from her. "I think I do . . . I _hope _I do," she murmured.

"Jess -"

"I _like _Dean," she cut him off. "I want to make that clear, before I say what I want to say in this conversation."

Sam flinched. He knew that tone. It was her _I'm-putting-into-practice-a-technique-I-read-in-my-psych-book _tone. He opened his mouth, but Jess put her hand up, cutting him off quickly.

"He's definitely on my top 10 favorite people list."

The made him smirk. Jess's list was a long running joke, "I'll be sure to let him know," he murmured.

Jess shot him a quick glare and he wiped the smirk off his face. "Listen, Jess -"

"I'm not sure I actually _know _him though," she said in a rush. Her eyes dropped from his face; she was uncomfortable with this conversation, he realized.

Well, good. They were even.

He knew what was coming next; had known all summer that it would come eventually. Sam opened his mouth, knowing it was futile to try and head it off, but having to try anyway. "You know him -"

"Where does he live? Why does he travel so much? What are those _jobs _you two are always talking about? What does he do?" she asked, again in a rush, but this time looking up at him, eyes earnest and almost pleading. She wanted to be let in. He saw that, knew that . . . and knew that he would never do such a thing to her . . .

_What does he do?_

The words echoed in his mind. What did Dean do?

_Christ._

How was he supposed to put that into words?

_Dean dug up bodies and buried corpses... _

"Sam?" Jess murmured, and he blinked at her. She sighed roughly, dropping her legs from the sofa onto the floor. "This is exactly what I mean. How can I actually _know _him if I don't know stuff like this? I mean okay, I know what he's like. I know he's fun and a great guy and whatever, but my sister is gonna want to know more than that. This is basic stuff, stuff I should know about my _brother-in-law..."_

_Dean stole identities and impersonated officers of the law..._

"I haven't asked all summer because somehow I knew it would be an issue, and I didn't want to bring up any issues because you were so happy he was here. And I love having him stop by and I love how happy you've been and I love watching you two together . . . but Jilly is going to ask questions, and she isn't going to take silence like this."

_Dean hunted monsters, banished spirits, killed things..._

"You know how she is. She's going to insist and Dean's going balk because that's how _he _is, and everything's going to be a mess. That's why I told her she could meet Dean at the wedding, because I figure at the wedding they're both going to be on their best behavior; but then I remembered the rehearsal dinner and now I'm just, sorta, kinda freakin' out a little bit..."

"Jess."

He said her name quietly, firmly, and she immediately stopped talking and turned to look at him. Her blue eyes were a bit frantic and he wanted to kiss her, because he knew how worked up she'd been about this. How long she'd made herself hold back the questions, because she didn't want to upset anything.

_What does he do? _

The question echoed one more time, before Sam answered it. "He saves people."

Jess blinked at him for a moment without saying anything, then she frowned a little. "He saves people?" she asked softly.

Sam nodded, already feeling a little sheepish, "Yeah."

She nodded and took a deep, shuddering breath, then tilted her head a little to one side, studying him. "How? I mean, he's not a cop," she stated after a moment, managing to sound certain and questioning in the same breath.

Sam's eyes widened and he shook his head quickly, "No, no . . . not like that."

"Or a fireman? Or a paramedic . . . all those things wouldn't require all this moving . . ." she added quickly. Sam knew then that she might not have asked all summer, but she'd been thinking on it – a lot.

Sam shook his head again. "No, he just . . . he helps people," he said and she remained silent.

Jess was waiting, and after a moment he continued slowly, "People that . . . the, uh – police . . . can't help . . ."

Sam could have kicked himself when her eyes narrowed. God, he was screwing this up.

She nodded slowly, but there was still confusion written all over her face. "Why? What's wrong, that the police can't help?"

_Cops don't load their guns with rock salt and regular clips don't work on poltergeists._

Yeah. That would go over well.

He took a deep breath, dropping his eyes. "Sometimes the police just . . . can't; they don't know how – or they . . . just . . . they can't," he stuttered out.

Well, it was true.

Her face cleared suddenly. "Because of . . ." she paused, ". . . the laws, right?"

Sam started a little, "What?" He shook his head quickly. "I never said anything about laws -"

"He's got the sharpest, most deadly-looking knife I've ever seen in that duffel bag," she interrupted. And Jess sounded much too carefree about it for Sam's comfort – like she'd been contemplating the fact that his brother lived a life of crime.

"How do you -"

"I snuck a picture in there a while back and found it."

Sam's eyebrows shot up. "That's all you found, right?" he asked, before he could stop himself. He'd asked Dean not to bring a gun into the apartment.

Jess frowned. "Was there supposed to be something else?"

He blinked. "No, no . . . I just . . . you can never really be sure, Dean, he -" Sam cut himself off abruptly then added more firmly, "No. Of course not. Nothing else."

They were silent a moment, then Jess asked softly, "So, he helps people that . . . the police can't . . . how?" It was soft and hesitant and Sam wanted to scream, because he should have been prepared for this, because he couldn't blame her for asking, because he had no idea what to say –

He looked down, away from her, and a moment later he heard her sigh.

"Is it illegal? Is that why you don't want to tell me?" she asked.

His head shot up; again she sounded way to blasé about this for his liking. "No." He said it firmly, although technically, _yes, _most of what Dean did – what Dad did, what _he'd _done – was illegal.

"Dean's a good guy. He has a good heart, like you. But he's . . . rough around the edges a little bit. So I've sort of resigned myself to the fact that his chosen profession may or may not be legal . . ."

Sam gaped at her; he couldn't help it.

Jess shrugged. "It's not like I woke up this morning and thought, _hey! I wonder what Dean does! _It's been on my mind for a while."

"He's not – he doesn't -" Christ, what was he supposed to say? Jess was on the right track, and he had to get her off it. It wasn't legal, what Dean did, but he couldn't let her think that.

Eventually, letting her think that would come back to bite him in the ass.

"It's not illegal," he lied. "It's . . . he finds things for people," Sam muttered.

"Like a P.I.?" she asked, inching forward a little suddenly.

A Private Investigator – _Christ._

"Well, uh, sort of . . . but more like things – uh, _people_,I mean, that are . . . hurting other . . . people . . ."

"People that the police can't find?"

"Yeah, I mean . . . it's not exactly . . . their jurisdiction . . ."

"So he catches the bad guy?" Jess asked, eyes suddenly animated. Sam was afraid that he was giving the wrong impression here.

Yeah, Dean did catch the bad guy – but the bad guy was usually dead, sometimes _undead_.

Slowly, he nodded. "Yeah . . . I guess, but . . . I mean, it's not that – dramatic . . ."

God, don't make it dramatic, _please_, Sam thought fervently. The less fuss made about Dean's job, the better.

"So he's like a bounty hunter?"

A bounty hunter?

"Um . . ."

A bounty hunter? A supernatural one, maybe...

The thought made him smile suddenly. Dean was a supernatural bounty hunter –that actually kinda fit. Except for the whole not-getting-paid thing.

"Yeah, I guess, something like that -"

Jess nodded, her face beginning to clear. "So . . . where, I mean . . . is there an . . . office for that?"

Sam nearly laughed in her face at that. Dean was not an office kind of guy.

He shook his head. "No, no . . . it's . . ."

"Freelance?" she supplied, inching forward again.

Sam swallowed, nodding – okay, yeah, sure, that was one way of putting it.

"So people pay him to," she paused, "fix problems for them – problems the police can't. And he – catches people and finds things . . . and . . ." her face lit up suddenly. "That's what your Dad does too, isn't it!" she cried. "That's why you moved around a lot. That's the family business that Dean meant," she stated.

When had Dean mentioned the family business?

He nodded slowly. "Uh, yeah . . ."

"So he's part P.I., part bounty hunter, huh?" Jess murmured, smiling. A smile that widened suddenly. "It totally fits him, you know," she gushed.

Sam continued to stare at her.

She seemed _happy _with this.

"See?" she added, reaching out and patting his arm. "Was that so hard?"

He shook his head. "Jess -"

"I know that for someone like you with all that legal stuff in their head, where everything has to have its little corner, it must be hard that Dean has no job title, but it's okay, really," she comforted. "It's kinda an odd job, but it totally fits Dean perfectly and _you _have to learn to bend a little," she finished.

He realized that somewhere in her head she'd concluded that he was ashamed of Dean's – and by proxy, his Dad's – job. And that was the explanation for his silence. He hadn't told anyone because he was an uptight, inflexible, legal-minded individual – not because it was illegal.

Huh, go figure.

"I have to call Jilly and tell her," Jess murmured, getting up. But instead of moving away she laughed. "Oh, god, she's totally going _hate _this!" she giggled.

Sam nodded absentmindedly.

"How long's Dean going to be in Georgia?" Jess asked.

Sam's mind was still racing – a bounty hunter?

Jeez.

Dean was going to _kill _him.

"Um, a week probably," he muttered.

"Is that how long it usually takes him?" Jess asked, eyes glimmering with interest. "That's not very long. He's good, isn't he?" she added lightly. Sam realized suddenly how much it had bothered her to not know, how much she'd _wanted _to know.

A bounty hunter.

A Private Investigator.

She didn't know, not _really -- _and yet . . . a private investigator found things – like Dean. And a bounty hunter _was _a hunter, so maybe . . . in a way . . . she did know.

Bounty hunter, private investigator – they were . . . _translations _of what Dean did. Hell, they were _close _translations.

A smile suddenly stretched across his face.

Why hadn't this occurred to him before? Dean did find things that the police couldn't and he obviously _hunted_ –true, the things he hunted weren't human, and he didn't actually get _paid _for any of it, but the basics were mostly true and the most basic was absolutely true. Dean helped people.

His smile was so wide that Sam knew he must look like an idiot, but he didn't care. Jess knew what Dean did . . .

"Yeah," he said softly. "He is. He's very good at what he does."

She nodded. "I'm sure he -" Jess scowled suddenly. "You two should just have told me. Do you have any idea how many theories I've come up with?"

Sam chuckled, "No. But I'd love to hear them someday." _I know you didn't hit on the right one, babe, _he thought wryly.

Jess rolled her eyes. "I'm gonna call Jilly. How 'bout in two weeks for the dinner?"

Sam frowned. "That's kinda early for a rehearsal dinner. Don't we have to plan for -"

"No, not the rehearsal dinner. Just us four for dinner -"

"I thought you said that you didn't want to do that?"

"That was _before_," Jess corrected. "Now I HAVE to my sister's face when Dean tells her he's a freelance bounty hunter," she laughed again. "Jilly's gonna have a cow!"

Sam snorted. "Jill dyed her hair orange last month; she's not one to talk."

"Ah, but she will, Sam, she will have lots to say," Jess stated, turning to go into the kitchen. "And I can't wait to see Dean listening . . ."

Sam rolled his eyes. He wasn't worried – Dean had been evading questions from people like Jill forever.

The _fun_ part of this little _just-us-four _dinner was going to be informing Dean that not only was he coming, but convincing his older brother that he was now a freelance bounty hunter and Private Investigator. Oh, yeah.

That was going to be fun.

* * *


	5. You Said What?

**  
**

**Disclaimer: **I do not own "Supernatural."

**Story Summary:** Sam explains to Dean what his job translates to. :P

* * *

"Sorry, man, I've got bad reception – it sounded like you said I was a bounty hunter."

The fact that Dean's voice was serious and not sarcastic told Sam this was not going to go well.

He swallowed hard. "Uh, yeah. That _is _what I said – and a Private Investigator, too, sort of . . ."

A low, truly amused chuckle met that. "Nice, Sammy, can we get to the punch line soon, 'cause I'm tired and I'd like to get sleep some time tonight . . ."

Again, no sarcasm – at all. Maybe it was because he was tired . . . yeah, that was it. It had nothing to do with the fact that Dean couldn't even _imagine _Sam saying something like that seriously. No, nothing to do with that.

"It's not . . . I'm not -" Sam took a deep breath. "It's what I told Jess you do . . . for a living . . . and she told her sister and we're all having dinner together this weekend."

There was a pause this time.

Then, "You said _what?"_

There wasn't any sarcasm in that either, only incredulity.

Sam preferred the sarcasm.

"I had to tell her _something _. . . and it just . . . sort of happened. I was trying to think of something and not lie as much as usual, you know . . . and then she started drawing her own conclusions and then -"

"I was a bounty hunter," Dean inserted.

"Yeah."

"And a P.I."

"Yeah."

"Dude."

"Yeah, I know. I didn't mean to – it just _happened, _Dean. I swear, I was trying to . . . I don't even know . . . she caught me off guard and she was sad and . . . she thought you did something illegal and I wanted her to stop thinking that. And then she just . . . I honestly don't _know_ what happened. She just – she -"

"Dude. Yeah. I've met Jess. I know."

Sam released a long breath, then, "One minute I'm telling her you find things, and then the next she's got you catching bad guys..."

"Catching bad guys?"

"Yeah."

Dean was silent.

God. Dean was going _kill _him. He could feel it. Although usually the yelling had started by now when he'd done something Dean was going to kill him for . . .

"Dean, are you pissed?" he asked, getting up to pace the floor of the study.

"Pissed?" his brother repeated, and Sam started to feel truly nervous for the first time. Had he done something even worse than he'd thought he had?

"Look, I'm sorry, okay? But I couldn't think of anything and she . . . she looked so excited and for a minute I thought that maybe it . . . it _fit _a little bit, and I -"

"You told her I'm a bounty hunter," Dean cut him off.

"Yeah." Sam took a deep breath and confessed the rest. "Freelance."

"Freelance."

"You know, when you're not actually employed by an office, but you get paid by the people that hire -"

"I know what freelance is, Sam."

He swallowed hard. "Yeah, yeah . . . I know. I just," he sighed. "Are you mad?"

The line was silent.

"Dean? Come on, man, don't be mad -"

"Don't get your whities in a twist, Francis. I'm not mad."

"Then -"

"At you."

"What?"

"Dude. Do you know how impressed women are gonna be with a rogue bounty hunter? They fall all over that bad-boy shit."

Sam blinked, positive he was the one with the bad connection now. "What?" He he sat back down.

"I could KICK myself. I totally should have come up with this. I can't believe my lame-o baby brother thought it up -"

"Dean – what the hell are you talking about?"

"Women, Sammy. Christ. How did you land Jess in the first place?"

His mouth opened, but no words came out.

"I mean, I knew she was out of your league when I met her, but seriously -"

"Shut up."

Dean laughed.

"So you're really okay with this?" Sam asked after a moment.

Dean sighed, "Yeah, man. I didn't think you were gonna tell her that I hunt evil for a living. I'm just surprised you came up with something that's even remotely interesting."

"Asshole."

Another chuckle. "Are we done here? Can I go to bed now?"

"No. When are you coming in?"

"I dunno. Couple days."

"Georgia's freakin' far, Dean."

"Really?"

Ah,_ there _was the sarcasm. "I'm serious. Try and stay in the vicinity, okay?"

"There's evil to hunt on the east coast too, bro," Dean answered. "We bounty hunters hafta to go where the bad guys lead, ya know."

"Let Dad go," he responded, ignoring the bounty hunter quip.

"Sometimes it's a two-man job, you know that."

"You said this turned to be a basic salt and burn; this was not a two-man gig. I mean it took more time to _find_ it than get rid of it."

"This was different."

It was the suddenly soft tone that sent Sam's eyebrow's near his hairline, "Different how?"

"It just was. Don't worry 'bout it. I'll be there in a couple days. In time for this dinner thing – oh! Jess's sister hot or what?"

"NO!" Sam cried.

"Whoa! She that fugly, huh?"

"Don't under ANY circumstances hit on Jill. Ever." Sam grated out, visions of a steak knife embedded in his brother's hand flashing through his mind.

Dean huffed. "What the hell, Sam? You need to hang out with SINGLE women 'cause every time I get to Palo Alto it's like a took a friggin' vow of celibacy 'cause -"

"Jill _is _single and _please _don't get started on your sexual habits."

Dean laughed, "You blushing, Sammy?"

"Fuck you."

"So if this Jill-girl's single then why can't I--"

"Jill will eat you for breakfast, Dean."

"Dude, is that a bad thing?"

"Oh, God. I'm ending this conversation."

Dean laughed, "Sounds good. There's a bed calling my name."

"But seriously, don't hit on her. And from now on . . . try to stay closer to the area, at least for awhile? Just because . . . you know there are a couple more fittings, and the bachelor party, and the rehearsal dinner and then the wedding. So just . . . stay close, okay?" Sam tapered off a little, wondering if he was crossing a line or something.

Sometimes he crossed lines; said things that really set Dean off. It had happened more in the beginning, before he'd learned where the lines usually lay. Anything to do with Dad was usually a hit; sometimes asking if he was hurt – usually a blowout over _that_ indicated that Dean _was _hurt; sometimes wondering how far he was . . .

The pause stretched and then Dean's voice came across, all teasing gone. "Okay kid, you got it. I'll stay close."

Sam nodded, even though his brother couldn't see him. "Okay, good. Thanks . . . and about the bounty hunter thing, just -"

"I'll play along, Sam," Dean stated, then chuckled. "Dude. I should get business cards – to give to women!"

A grin spread across Sam's face even as he rolled his eyes, "Call me when you get in town."

"Yes, baby, and I'll bring you flowers too."

"God, you're so annoying."

"And good-looking."

"'Night, Dean."

"Yeah, whatever."

It was Dean's parting shot before most conversations and this was no different. A moment later the connection ended. The words took things off the chick-flick avenue Dean claimed Sam lived on, and they never failed to make Sam smile. He set the phone down and chuckled to himself. That had gone surprisingly well. Maybe it was sign. Maybe everything would go well; maybe the dinner would go off without a hitch, and Dean and Jill would be platonic friends, and there would be no bloodshed – maybe.

* * *


	6. Nice To Meet You

**  
**

**Disclaimer: **I do not own "Supernatural"

**Summary: **Sam's brother meets Jess's sister. :-)

* * *

"Sam. You're making _me _nervous. Chill," Jess whispered. They were standing outside the restaurant waiting for Dean – who swore he was _right around the corner._

Jill stood with them; she was looking less and less pleased. "Jess, can we go in now?" she asked for the sixth time, pointedly ignoring Sam. "It's hot out here," she added, a moment later.

Jess sighed and exchanged a quick, amused look with Sam. "No. Dean's never been here before. He might miss it or something."

"He's late."

"He's coming from out of state."

"Yeah, whatever."

A smile tugged at Sam's lips. Jill always had this effect on him – it was either smile or strangle her.

"You'll like Dean," Jess assured her little sister, shooting Sam a grin this time.

"Yeah. If I don't melt before he gets here."

"Stop being a baby," Sam drawled.

She glared at him. "Call him again."

"He said he'd be here in a few minutes."

"It's been 10."

"Seven."

"I'm going inside."

"You are not," Jess hissed. "We're going inside together."

"I'm hot. I feel faint," she sighed dramatically. "I need water. I have to pee. I'll be back."

And with that slew of excuses she turned and maneuvered her way into the restaurant's entrance.

Sam and Jess watched her go.

"This is a bad idea," Sam stated for the hundredth time that day.

Jess rolled her eyes, "It is NOT. Stop saying that. You're putting out negative energy."

Sam sighed. "I liked the idea of having them meet at the wedding; that was a good idea. It's not too late. We can go back to that idea. I'll call Dean and tell him to just go to the apartment. He's probably tired anyway, he won't mind -"

"Sam, relax," Jess comforted. "What's the worst that could happen?" she murmured.

His eyes widened. "You did not just say that! Oh, God – do you realize that's like . . . like . . . tempting all the -"

She laughed, "Relax. Oh, there he is!" she cried, pointing to the Impala as it rounded the corner. Jess shot him a big grin. "Too late now. Guess the dinner's gotta happen!"

Sam sighed as he lifted his hand to wave at Dean. "You'll think back on this moment in a few hours and wish you'd listened to me. You'll see . . . this is a disaster waiting to happen."

"You're giving Jilly a run for her money in the drama department, Sam."

He sighed and watched as Dean stuck his hand out of the window and waved back. "I just know Dean. And I know Jill and I know . . . that Dean _and_ Jill is bad news."

Jess huffed. "Well, I know Jilly and Dean too. And I think that after some initial . . . _friction_, they're going to get along just fine."

"Yeah, but the question is are we gonna survive the friction period?"

She jabbed him in the ribs, "Stop with the negativity!"

"Ow! Okay, jeez. Stop with the violence already!" he griped, then reached down and pulled her into his arms. Jess turned around in his hold and looked up at him.

"I want them to like each other," she stated earnestly.

Sam sighed; she was blinking those big blue eyes at him. "I know. But we shouldn't force it, okay. If they don't like each other then let's leave it at that?"

She batted the lashes at him. "But Dean's going to be nice isn't he?"

Sam arched an eyebrow. "I don't think it's _Dean's _niceness we need to worry about," he countered.

She stood on tip-toes and pressed her lips against his. "Jilly can be nice," she murmured. Sam felt himself forgetting the point of this conversation.

"Uh, yeah – sure," he muttered as his hold on her tightened.

"Well hell – do I get a blonde to make-out with?"

Sam and Jess sighed in unison, holding their position for one more moment, before Jess spun around in Sam's hold.

"Hi, Dean," she said, pulling away from Sam and smiling widely at her soon-to-be-brother-in-law.

"If you didn't bring enough for the class, Sammy . . ." Dean added, letting the sentence hang and shooting his little brother a grin.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Sam," he corrected and took a step towards his brother.

Dean immediately took a step back, his gaze wary.

Sam chuckled. Jess giggled, shot Sam an amused look, and then launched herself at Dean, squeezing him hard.

"Aw, man!" Dean held himself perfectly still. An instant later – "Is it over yet?" he asked.

Jess laughed again and stepped back. "So did you get the bad guy?" she asked him.

Dean stared at her a moment. He knew what she thought he did, but actually seeing her believe it was startling. "Uh . . . yeah . . . I did," he answered.

She nodded, "Okay. Good. I hope you're hungry."

"I'm always hungry."

"That's true," Sam chimed in.

"Let's go then!" she cried and led the way.

Sam and Dean fell into step behind her.

"You okay?"

"Just dandy."

"Don't hit on her."

"But -"

"Don't."

"You take the fun out of everything."

* * *

Three minutes later Sam was reminded of why he had to be amused by Jill – because he really would strangle her if he wasn't.

She'd had herself seated – at a table for three.

"I wasn't sure if he was going to show up or not," she murmured when Jess called her on it. They were following a waiter who was moving them to a booth.

A moment later they were taking their seats and Jess's eyes flashed angrily towards her younger sister. For a moment Jill looked chastised – it happened rarely, so Sam made sure to take a mental picture. "That wasn't your call to make," Jess informed her, still frowning.

Jill's chin lifted and the chastised look vanished. "Why deprive others of a table for four when you're not sure _your _fourth will show?"

Sam smirked a little as he slid in next to Dean; the girls sat across from them.

"And stand-up beauties like the two of you?" Dean murmured, smiling. "Never."

And then it happened – they shifted to look at each other.

Jill arched an eyebrow. "Jee. I'm charmed," she deadpanned, but that didn't deter Dean.

"You know, Sammy here has a thing for blondes . . . but I've always preferred the darker-haired ladies, myself."

"That's fascinating."

"That's me, baby-doll; fascinating."

Jill shifted to look at Jess, "Is he for real? Seriously?"

"Dean," Sam hissed, kicking him under the table.

"Ow! What?" he asked, looking at Sam.

Sam glared at him, "Stop it."

"Stop what? I _am _fascinating. A lot of women have told me so."

Jill groaned, "Oh, god. Seriously?"

Dean nodded, "Yea, baby, seriously."

Jill's blue eyes flashed. "I know it must be hard when you only have three brain cells and all, but try to hear what I'm saying: Don't. Call. Me. That."

"Jill!"

Dean's eyes widened in mock horror. "Whoa!" he glanced at Jess. "No offense, but you're sister's a real bit -"

"Dean!"

The table was silent after that.

Sam shot Jess an _I-told-you-so _stare and she sent him a glare so hot it burned.

"Okay. Both of you stop talking," she stated, just as a waiter came by and asked if they'd like anything to drink.

No one had looked at menus. There was an awkward moment of silence before they all asked for a variety of drinks and more time to decide on food.

The waiter took the orders and left.

Then there was more silence. The silence extended as they all studied menus. Jess looked at Sam, then Jill. Sam looked at Dean, then Jess. Dean looked at Jess, then Sam. Jill looked at Jess, then Sam. No one actually made eye contact.

A moment later the waiter came back with their drinks and Jess ordered a platter of appetizers and asked for yet more time to look at the menu.

When the waiter left Jess released a long sigh. "Okay," she murmured, drawing the word out and looking around the table. "So." She fastened her gaze on Dean. "Jilly isn't usually that bitchy, " she said, then looked over at Jill. "And Dean's not usually that sleazy. So how 'bout we start over."

Sam couldn't stop a rush of laughter at the looks she received.

"I don't know, Jessy . . . you can't just whip out of thin air that level of -"

Sam swallowed his laughter. "Dean!" he reprimanded.

"What? I bet she's had plenty of practice being a bitc -"

"Way more than you've had actually getting any -"

"Jill!"

"I've never had complaints, baby."

Jill's hand shot out towards her glass of ice tea and Jess's hand shot out towards Jill's wrist, grasping it just as the younger girl bumped the glass in Dean's direction.

Sam reached out quickly and steadied the glass.

He shot Dean a murderous look. "Cut it out."

"What is wrong with you two?" Jess hissed after shooting Jill her own murderous glare.

Jill pulled her wrist free, "I told him not to call me tha -"

"You're behaving like a child," Jess cut in.

Dean snorted and swallowed the laugh when Jess fastened furious eyes on him; "So are you," she added.

Jill huffed suddenly and leaned back against the booth. "He's wearing leather. You didn't tell me he wore leather." Her gaze was directed at Sam, her tone accusing.

Sam shrugged and glanced at Jess for help. "I – didn't think – it mattered," he said slowly.

"A cow _died _so he could look that unfashionable. Do you think that's fair?" Jill hissed.

"Yeah, well nobody told me were a brat," Dean drawled. "So we're even."

"I'm not -"

"Looks that way from here. How old are you anyway? Fifteen?"

Jill straightened, her eyes narrowed. "Twenty," she spat at him.

"Twenty?" Dean stated, like he'd never heard the number before. Then he looked at Jess, a smile starting on his face, "She's your _little _sister."

Jess nodded, frowning a little, "Yeah." She shot Sam a confused look.

Dean shifted to glance at his brother, "You didn't tell me that."

Sam sighed. "I – didn't think – it mattered," he said for the second time that night.

Dean eyed Jill for a moment. "I would have bought you a Barbie doll or something."

"Dean!"

Jill's gaze burned, "Screw you!"

"Jill!"

The table was silent for several seconds and then Dean laughed; a full-throated, utterly amused laugh.

A moment later a smile tugged at Jill's lips and then she was laughing too. "_God_, but you're _annoying_," she muttered.

Dean nodded. "Oh yeah, baby." He lifted his beer and tipped it in her direction, "Nice to meet you."

Jill rolled her eyes, but she was still smiling as she picked up her menu.

Jess and Sam stared at each other in confusion for a moment, before Sam shrugged and picked up his own menu. Whatever – as long as there was no bloodshed, he was happy.

"Wait," Jess murmured. "What just -"

Jill tilted her head towards her sister, "What?"

"What just happened?"

Jill shrugged, shooting Dean a look. "What d'you mean?"

"You just -" She looked at Dean. "You too. You both just did a 180."

"Nuh-uh, he's still wearing a cow."

"I'm gonna eat one, too."

Jill rolled her eyes, "He's annoying."

"She's a brat."

Jess blinked, "Okay . . . but you're . . ."

"Just let it be, honey," Sam murmured. "As long at they don't maim each other I'm happy," he stated. "Do you think the Chicken Pesto is any good?" he asked in general.

"Oh for God's sake, could you eat like a man and not a quasi-new-age-imitation of one?"

"Chicken is not new-age, Dean."

"Have a steak."

Jill gasped, "Oh gross."

Dean's eyebrows shot up as his gaze landed on Jill. "Tell me you're not one of those freaky vegetarian people."

"Tell me you're not one of those prejudiced omnivore people."

Sam laughed. "Dean's more of carnivore actually."

Jess laughed at that too, "Yeah. If it's green, it's not going in his mouth, right, Dean?"

"Hell, yeah. Food's got no business being friggin' _green._"

"Green vegetables have many nutrients that are -"

"Jilly's a biology major," Jess informed Dean, cutting her sister off.

"Oh God, kill me now," Dean muttered.

"Speaking of killing things – I hear that's your line of work."

Sam and Dean went absolutely still.

Jess rolled her eyes, "He doesn't _kill_ people, Jill. Jeez. I told you -"

"Isn't the slogan _Dead or Alive_?" her little sister asked, interrupting Jess. "I've seen TV. Bounty hunters get their money if the quarry is dead or alive as long as they bring it in . . . and his penchant for _leather _already tells us he likes to kill things."

Dean blinked at her, then shifted to look at Sam. "Seriously? Did she seriously just say _quarry_?"

Sam tried to hold back his smile, but knew the corners of his mouth tilted upwards. "So you said _no_ about the Pesto?"

Dean looked back to Jill, "Listen, kid -"

"JILL," she snapped.

"There's this little issue of _prison-time _if I bring in the, uh, _quarry, _dead. The law wouldn't like it if I went around killing people."

"You murdered that cow."

"I did _not _murder this cow. This cow was murdered before I got the jacket."

The waiter came back with the appetizers then and he asked for their orders.

Sam ordered the chicken pesto, Jess ordered a pasta dish, and Dean ordered a steak. The waiter waited patiently while Jill studied the menu one more time.

"Uh . . . I'll have the monster burger, extra fries, okay?"

The waiter nodded, asked if they needed anything more to drink and then left.

Dean gaped at Jill, "Jeez, kid. What the hell kinda vegetarian are you?"

"Vegetarian?" Jill repeated, like she'd never heard the word. She looked to Jess, then Sam, "Did I _say_ I was a vegetarian? I don't think so."

Dean frowned at her, "But -"

Jess sighed and reached for her martini.

"Oooh, taste!" Jill squealed and scooted closer to her sister to take a sip from Jess's glass.

Dean stared at her.

Sam chuckled and patted Dean on the shoulder. "Don't worry. You'll get used to her," he comforted, his tone amused.

Dean's gaze remained fastened on the younger girl across the table. "_Christ_, but you're a_ BRAT_," he sputtered a moment later, still eyeing Jill.

She looked up from where she'd been talking with Jess and grinned at him, wide and smug. "Oh yeah, baby," she murmured, then winked at him. "Nice to meet you."

* * *


	7. Godzilla

**  
**

**Disclaimer: **I do not own "Supernatural."

**Author's Note: **Hmm, sometimes you just have to indulge the need for shameless HurtDean and Sam schoomp. ;) I hope you enjoy it.

**Story Summary:** Dean comes to Sam's apartment hurt after a job that wasn't _that _kind of job.

* * *

"Wha's wrong?" Jess murmured, feeling Sam slip away.

"A noise. Be right back," he answered softly as he sat up. "Stay here," he added, before standing. Jess made a low sound in her throat and burrowed further into the pillows.

Sam smirked as he made his way soundlessly towards the living room – obviously she was concerned about the noise.

Sam was actually fairly certain it was Dean breaking in that he'd heard, but being cautious never hurt when you were a Winchester.

When he entered the living room, he frowned. There was figure just _sitting_ on his couch. He went on actual alert then – the last few times Dean had let himself in, he'd pulled out the sofa bed and made himself comfortable.

Maybe it wasn't Dean? But who the hell broke into to an apartment to sit on a couch?

A few more steps and he was sure it _was_ Dean – he could see his profile. "Dean?" he asked softly, still working to keep his steps soundless.

A soft chuckle. "You make enough noise there, Sammy?"

Sam's heart dropped to his stomach. He knew that tone; that slightly slurred, dully amused tone. He hated that tone. "What happened?" he asked, dropping caution and reaching for the light switch.

"No, don't -"

Dean's words were too slow and light flooded the living room. The older man groaned and covered his face with his arms.

"Holy shit, Dean," Sam hissed, going to sit next to him. "What the hell happened?"

There was blood on his brother's face.

Blood.

It was dry and trailed the length of his face in one long, winding road from a jagged cut above his left brow.

Dean didn't respond, didn't move his arm away from his face. Sam reached out a hand towards him.

"Touch me and _die_," Dean hissed softly.

"You have a _concussion, _don't you?" Sam accused, dropping his hand. "What. Happened?"

Dean shrugged and winced, lowering his arm a little, his eyes half-closed, "Nothing."

"You're lying to me."

Dean sighed softly. "Don't be dramatic."

"You tell me the jobs are easy and that you'll be fine – and then _this _happens."

"This didn't happen on a job – not _that _kind of job," Dean murmured, letting his eyes slide shut.

Sam slid closer to his brother. The fact that he was able to do that and to actually settle one hand against Dean's face before the older man startled and opened his eyes scared him a little. "You drove from Nevada like this?" Sam asked, carefully tilting his brother's face so he could examine the cut.

"Mmm-uh," Dean murmured, closing his eyes again.

"You're a fuckin' moron," Sam growled. "Lean forward – I want to get this jacket off." _And see where else you're hurt._

Dean frowned. "Uh-uh," he contradicted, pulling the jacket fractionally closer. "S'cold in 'ere . . ."

It wasn't, Sam thought grimly; that was a bad sign.

"Are you bleeding all over the couch, Dean? Jess won't like that." He spoke as calmly as he could, trying to control his racing heartbeat as he tugged at Dean's jacket.

Dean frowned a little. "Nuh-uh . . . g'way. I'm tired . . ." he murmured.

Sam nodded, "I bet you are. I need you to sit up a little, Dean, come on. You just drove, what? Two hours? Three? You can keep it together for a few more minutes – come on."

Dean frowned at him, opening unfocused hazel eyes. "M'tired," he stated as though Sam hadn't heard him.

"Sam?" Jess's voice was sleepy and curious as she walked out into the living room, rubbing a hand over her face.

Her eyes widened a moment later as she studied the scene. "Oh my God, what happened?" she asked, coming forward quickly and standing across from them. Her wide eyes flew over Dean. "God, he needs a doctor."

"No."

"No!"

Dean's protest was a bit louder than Sam's. He jerked on the sofa, eyes shooting open, a scowl already forming on his face. Sam held him still.

"No doctor," Sam responded calmly. "It's not as bad as it looks," he told Jess confidently.

_LIAR_, his mind reprimanded. He had _no idea _how bad it was because Dean was slumped on his sofa with no intention of moving, and Sam couldn't examine him like this.

Jess gave him a skeptical look. "It looks bad," she murmured, carefully sitting on the sofa on Dean's other side.

"He'll be okay," Sam continued.

"G'way," Dean murmured, trying to pull away from where Sam had a hand on his brother's arm, turning into the sofa – away from the light. His head must be throbbing, Sam thought suddenly.

He sighed, "I need to see where you're hurt, Dean."

No response.

"I can't help you unless I know where you're hurt – come on," he tried again, reaching to lift his brother.

Dean tensed. "No . . . jus' wanna sleep . . ."

Sam gritted his teeth. He _knew _his brother – Dean probably _was_ friggin' _bleeding, _but he couldn't check; every time he went to touch him, Dean pulled back or tensed or told him to stop in that sleepy, wounded tone which Sam found impossible to ignore.

"Dean, sweetie?" Jess interrupted his thoughts. Her voice soft as she laid a hand on his brother's forehead – the bit of it not covered in blood. "Where does it hurt?" she asked gently.

Dean's eyes opened slowly, his eyes taking a moment to focus on her. "Head . . ." he answered.

Sam's eyes widened; he nearly got whiplash as he looked up to stare at Jess.

Her gaze was on Dean, though. She nodded, "Anywhere else?"

"Ribs . . . side . . ." Dean answered thickly; then his eyes slid shut again.

Jess nodded and then looked at Sam. "I think he needs a . . ." she paused, ". . . a d-o-c," she murmured, smirking a little despite the worry in blue eyes. "He's _bleeding _. . ."

Sam stared at her a moment, then looked back at Dean, who seemed to have fallen asleep.

Jess shrugged, answering the question in his eyes. "You didn't ask him where it hurt," she explained, then continued, "I really think -"

Sam shook his head before she could finish. "Dean doesn't like doctors or hospitals – it'll make things worse."

"Sam -"

"Trust me. It'll be fine."

Jess frowned at him, but nodded slowly and lifted her hand from Dean's forehead.

Sam's gaze shifted to Dean. "Come on, Dean," he tried again, slipping his arms behind his brother. "Up – let's get the jacket off," he murmured, lifting the older man off the sofa.

"No, cold . . ." Dean followed the word promptly with a shiver.

"Don't worry, I'll get you a blanket," Jess comforted, laying a hand on his arm.

"Oh, 'kay," Dean murmured, looking at her through half-lidded eyes.

"Help me here first," Sam said. "Tug that sleeve for me."

She nodded and slowly they peeled the jacket off Dean. Jess took it and placed it on an armchair – carefully. Dean was oddly attached to that jacket.

Sam lifted his brother's t-shirt to check the man's ribs. He froze when his brother's stomach was exposed.

"Sam -" Jess whispered, a catch in her voice.

"I see it," Sam answered, his mouth suddenly dry. Holy shit. There was a gash running across the middle of Dean's belly. It had stopped bleeding and it obviously wasn't very deep – because if it _had _been deep his brother's _intestines _would've been on the _ground _somewhere in _Nevada_.

Shit.

The gash was surrounded by dark bruises and welts.

Sam's jaw clenched. "I need to get this t-shirt off."

"He needs a doctor. He needs an ER and stitches and – and – _medicine _or something." Jess got up. "I'm calling -"

"No," Sam said firmly. "Get some ice and wrap it in a towel, I'll be right back."

He didn't wait to watch her do it, and Jess was still in the kitchen when he came back from his study with the first aid kit. Quickly he took out a small pair of scissors and with a quick prayer that this wasn't a _favorite _of Dean's, he carefully the cut the t-shirt off.

It really wasn't deep at all, not even butterflies would be needed. Dean had pulled back quickly – pulled back from what, though? A blade . . . or a claw?

"Dean," He called. taking his brother's face in his hands. "Wake up, come on." Sam tapped lightly against his brother's cheek, "Dean . . ."

Dean frowned and tried to pull away from Sam's hold. "Wha -" he muttered, eyes flickering open.

"What did this?" Sam asked quietly.

Dean blinked sluggishly at him. Sam opened his mouth to repeat the question, but Jess's voice cut him off as she entered the living room again.

"Sam, I don't – you're awake," she interrupted herself, sitting back down next to Dean.

Sam took the ice from her. Dean jerked away from his brother, shooting him what Sam supposed was meant to pass as a dark scowl, but came off as a rather comical almost-pout.

"No way – came 'ere to _sleep_ – not to . . . sit on – goddamned _ice_, all night . . ." the words were the most lucid Dean had said in a while and Sam almost smiled – almost.

"We need to bring swelling down," he responded, but Dean's eyes were already sliding shut. "Dean," Sam called, heart hammering again. This wasn't good – Dean couldn't stay awake, and Jess looked about twenty seconds away from calling an ambulance.

He took the ice and placed it on his brother's head. Dean jerked awake. "Sam!" The older man groaned. "'eave me alone," he hissed.

Sam grabbed his face again and leaned down towards his brother. "Look at me," he ordered. "Now, Dean."

Dean sighed softly and blinked slowly, focusing on his brother.

Unequal pupils, Sam noticed, he moved his hands along Dean's neck and the back of his head – there had to be more here than the cut on the forehead.

Dean hissed in surprised agony. "Shit, Sammy!" he growled, sounding perfectly lucid suddenly. Pain did that, Sam thought grimly, shifting and tilting his brother's head to one side. There was a knot at the back of Dean's head.

"Were you unconscious at all?" Sam asked.

No response.

"Dean!" he snapped, knowing his brother was ignoring him.

"I shoulda gone to a motel -"

"Were you -"

"No."

"Blurred vision? Nausea? What city are you in? What year is it?"

A lengthy pause followed his questions and he was about to ask them again when Dean finally answered, "No. No. Palo Alto. 2006. M'fine, leave me 'lone."

Sam frowned. All the answers were right, but Dean never actually _answered _the questions when he was fine. "What did this?" Sam repeated, hand traveling down to the gash on Dean's stomach, ghosting over it.

Dean stilled, responding to the seriousness in Sam's tone.

"Do I need to cleanse it?" Sam continued, his voice taking on an edge of panic. He was trying to stay calm, but . . . he'd always hated this part, he'd never been able to stay calm during this part. Seeing Dean hurt had always been the hardest part to bear of _that _life.

Dean was still for a moment longer. Then he drew in a shuddering breath and lifted hazy eyes to Sam. "No," he murmured, "It wasn't _anything_.Just . . . people -"

The sense of relief that washed over Sam was followed closely by anger. "_People?!" _he hissed, "_People _did this to you?"

A ghost of a smirk touched Dean's lips. "Sore losers -" he explained softly. "Leave me 'lone now, 'kay."

Sam stared at him, then snorted at that. "You wish," he murmured, shoving the anger aside for now.

He shifted back towards the first aid kit and found Jess's wide eyes fastened on him – full of confusion and worry and _questions_. The heat of her gaze was heavy, but he had to take care of Dean first. Then he'd deal with Jess's questions.

He met her gaze and offered her a small smile in the meantime. "I'll be right back-- keep him awake for me, would ya?"

She nodded, studying him as he got up and headed for the kitchen.

Sam filled a bowl with water and grabbed a wash cloth as fast as humanly possible. He smiled when he entered the living room and found Dean smirking at Jess, " -Wen' fine . . . got the bad guy," he was telling her, eyes at half-mast.

"Looks like the bad guy got you ," Sam corrected as he sat down.

Dean sighed, "You're so 'nnoyin' – jus' leave me 'lone . . . Jessy . . . tell'm . . ."

Jess smiled a little, but she was pale; Sam could see she had a lot to say and it had nothing to do with whether or not Sam was annoying.

"This is gonna hurt a little," he told Dean as he started going through the First Aid kit and pulling out tweezers, hydrogen peroxide, antibacterial ointment, bandages, and tape. He turned back to Dean when he'd set everything out and nodded that he was ready. Dean shifted a little, bracing himself; he closed his eyes and then nodded his head fractionally – wincing a moment later. Sam took a deep breath. He really hated this part.

He was finished in less than ten minutes. He was quick and methodical – just like his Dad had taught him. He pressed the edges of the tape smooth and clenched his jaw when Dean winced as he touched the bruises – bruises and welts – bruises and welts made by _fists_ and _boots _–

"This is ridiculous!" Jess snapped suddenly, shooting up from the sofa and heading for the kitchen.

To get the phone, Sam realized quickly. "Jess!"

"No Sam! This is _crazy! _You don't . . . you don't _do_ things like this! You take concussions and freakin' _knife _wounds to ER's! You get x-rays and stitches and – and – tetanus shots!"

Sam was walking towards her now. "Calm down, okay . . . we're good here."

"Yeah, good," Dean murmured from the sofa. Grimacing as he started to pull himself up higher against the sofa, wanting to ease her worry; looking at Jess with a concerned expression on his face.

She scowled at him, "Don't do that!" she yelled, "_Either_ of you!! Don't look at me like _I'M _the WIERD one!"

"Jess – it's like 1 in the morning – keep it down," Sam hushed and knew instantly that had been the wrong thing to say.

Her eyes flashed and she shook her head. "I can't BELIEVE this! I mean – the two of you . . . you have your – _quirks!_ But _this, _THIS takes the cake!"

"Jess, you need to calm down. Dean is okay."

"Dean is NOT okay," she snapped. "Dean has a concussion and a _gash _on his stomach and cuts and bruises. And BOTH of you seem way to USED to Dean having a concussion and gashes and cuts and bruises!! And we are going to a HOSPITAL. NOW."

She was upset and yelling and worried and Sam wished he could pull her into a hug and make it all better – but he couldn't, because they weren't going to a hospital. Dean would never go for that – the injuries weren't life threatening enough.

"No, Jess," he said softly, "We're not."

"I'm okay," Dean whispered, trying to help make it better.

She glared at Sam for a beat then shifted her gaze to Dean. He received the laser heat of that gaze for a moment before she whirled away from them both. "FINE. WHAT_EVER,_" she growled, with the copious amounts of disdain that only a woman could manage as she stalked out of the living room.

The door to their bedroom slammed so hard Sam was surprised the entire apartment didn't shake. He looked at Dean, who offered him a small, tired smirk. A moment later the door opened again and they heard Jess's footsteps in the hallway. She appeared with a load of blankets. She strode over and deposited them next to Dean without a word, then left the room. Again the bedroom door rattled on its hinges as she slammed it shut.

Both brothers stared at the pile of blankets for a moment and then looked at each other. Sam moved closer to Dean, intent on sitting down again when they heard the bedroom door open yet again. Sam looked up in time to see Jess _hurl _his pillow at his head before she turned around and stomped back to the bedroom.

The pillow bounced off Sam's head and fell to the floor. Dean chuckled and then gasped, wrapping his arms around his stomach, eyes sliding shut again.

"Looks like I'm sharing the couch with you tonight."

"Wha'ever," Dean murmured, smirking as he mimicked Jess's word.

He slid down again, relaxing against the couch, his breathing almost instantly evened out in sleep.

Sam smiled a little. He'd have to wake Dean up in an hour anyway. So staying on the couch wasn't a problem – Jess being mad at him was. At the moment, though, he had a suddenly intense desire to get the blood off his brother's face. He didn't like seeing Dean asleep – vulnerable, defenseless –g with blood on his face.

He got up and went to kitchen for more water.

The cut on Dean's forehead was much quicker to treat and within a couple minutes his brother's face was blood free and decorated with white gauze. He took advantage of his brother's unconscious state and ran a hand through Dean's hair – just because.

Sometimes he missed he the spontaneous hugs of his childhood – and the comfort he'd always found in those hugs.

He smirked a little; Dean would call him a big girland swat the back of his head.

It only took a few minutes to get Dean's boots and jeans off. He thought about moving the other man to the armchair so he could pull the sofa bed out, but then he'd need sheets and chances were he'd wake Dean up before he really _had _to wake Dean up. So he didn't.

Instead he carefully stretched Dean out on the sofa, then took the blankets Jess had brought and draped them over him. Sam went and turned the lights off. He got the television's remote control and slid in behind Dean, laying his pillow on his lap and settling Dean against the pillow. Then he stretched out his legs and laid both feet on the coffee table.

Not bad, he thought smiling a little as he turned the TV on; he was pretty comfortable. There was an array of crappy movies on TV, so he muted the set so he could watch one.

He waited an entire hour and seven minutes before shaking Dean awake. "Wake up, dude," he murmured.

Dean shifted and Sam smiled because his brother turned into the pillow – towards Sam.

"Come on, Dean. Don't make me hafta dump water on you," Sam threatened gently. "What month is it? Who sang _Black Dog_?"

Dean sighed, lashes fluttering for a moment before revealing hazel eyes. "August. Zeppelin. Shu'-up," he ordered drowsily, shifting and going back to sleep.

Sam smiled, dropping a hand on Dean's shoulder. His brother had completely missed the fact that he was lying on Sam – that was amusing as hell.

He focused on the movie again. There was new one starting up and Sam wanted to change channel because it looked like a romantic comedy and he did not like romantic comedies, but the remote had slipped into the cushions while he'd been waking Dean up and he didn't feel like digging for it.

A teenage girl had just shoved a teenage boy into a pool when he heard the bedroom door open. A few seconds later Jess was standing in the living room, wearing shorts, a t-shirt and a sad expression.

They stared at each other for a long moment. Then she moved towards him and sat on the sofa arm rest. She pulled her knees up, wrapped her arms around them, and rested her chin on her knees. Her eyes fastened unseeingly on the TV.

Sam stared up at her for a moment. Then he shifted sideways, lifting Dean a little as he went. When he'd lifted his brother and made a small space between himself and the sofa's end, he reached out and pulled Jess into the hole.

She gasped a little, tensing instinctively; a moment later though she relaxed. Sam smiled a little as she curled against him, tucking her feet beneath her and laying her head on his shoulder.

When he settled Dean down again, his brother ended up half on him and half on Jess. Sam pulled the blanket back up, tucking it under Dean's chin.

Jess turned her face into his shoulder. "Sorry I yelled."

He turned his head and pressed the side of his face into her hair. "S'okay," he murmured.

"I am right and you're wrong, though," she added.

He chuckled, "Maybe."

"He should see a doctor."

"He will if he needs to. I'll make sure of it."

Her head lifted off his shoulder. "You've done this before," she said, looking into his eyes. "That . . . bothers me," she finished.

"We both know first aid."

"You have the Godzilla of first aid kits. I didn't even _know_ you had the Godzilla of first aid kits," Jess murmured.

Sam shrugged lightly, careful not to jostle Dean. "It's important to be prepared," he murmured. Remembered how he'd loaded _the Godzilla of first aid kits _with holy water and herbs – just in case. He wasn't stupid, after all.

"Sam," Jess said, and he felt his stomach drop. In the dim light of the TV he could see her eyes glowing with seriousness. "Have you done this a lot . . . before?" she asked softly.

A burst of hysterical laughter rose up in his throat. He swallowed it down. If only she knew . . . his stitches could rival those of an ER doctor and he knew three ways to treat burns. Sam could diagnose most field injuries proficiently and as adeptly as a professional. If only she knew that one of his first clear memories was of watching Dean slowly stitch together a gash in their father's side.

"I've done it before," he answered, because if he told Jess otherwise he'd know she was lying. She'd seen him handle Dean.

Sam watched her swallow. She still looked pale – paler in the glow of the TV. He forgot sometimes that not everyone could take blood and concussions as easily in stride as he could; that not everyone could deal with the shock of seeing someone they cared about hurt and keep on moving.

"Sam," she said again, in that same serious tone. "Did you . . . when you – _before _. . . did you . . ."

"My Dad was a Marine, Jess," he cut her off quietly, not wanting her to finish that question. "We were always prepared."

"The way you handled this -" She stopped herself suddenly and Sam dropped his gaze from hers. He didn't know what to say, how to answer this. He'd revealed too much tonight – _normal _people freaked out when their brothers showed up bleeding and hurt in the middle of the night; they went to emergency rooms and maybe even called the police. Normal people didn't diagnose and treat the injuries themselves and then call it a night.

"Did this happen a lot before you came to Stanford?" she asked.

His eyes shot up and met hers, but he said nothing.

"Did this happen a lot when you were growing up?" she continued, and he heard the beginnings of fury in her voice.

He didn't answer her. There were no words, because suddenly he was bombarded with images of their childhood. Images of blood and tears and clenched jaws and limp forms – they'd been hurt so often; Dean had been hurt so often . . .

Without looking, he pulled his brother a little closer to him; hugging Dean a bit tighter.

Suddenly Jess's lips were on his. He jumped, a little startled. She pulled back a moment later and brought her hand up to his face. "I'm glad you came to Stanford. And I'm glad Dean came here," she said softly. Then Jess shifted towards the television. "What're we watchin'?" she whispered.

Sam swallowed hard. Her words warmed something deep inside him even as his mind told him to be wary of this sudden shift in topic.

He wanted to be grateful for the change in conversation, but he knew – it was only a short reprieve. Jess didn't actually drop subjects. She put them away temporarily and pulled them out at the most inconvenient moments.

Better to deal with this now, while she was curled against him and Dean lay across them.

"We helped our Dad, when we were growing up," he told her softly. "Sometimes we got hurt. We didn't always have the option of going to a hospital," he said firmly, with finality.

It was all he would say on this subject.

She didn't say anything; didn't even shift towards him, just looked at the TV silently.

Sam swallowed hard and was about to add something, _anything _when she looked up at him through those long lashes. "So you weren't exactly the Bradys," she murmured. "I get it," she added, smirking at him.

He stared at her for a long moment and then he blinked, a small smile starting on his lips. Sam shook his head wryly, lowering his forehead to rest against hers. "God, I love you."

She giggled, "I know. I love you too."

They stayed like that for a long moment. "I want to know everything, every last detail of how you grew up. Everywhere you went and all the things you did – and I'll always be ready to listen when you're ready to start telling, okay?"

"Okay," Sam answered hoarsely.

She rubbed her nose against his for a moment and then pulled away and turned back to the TV, "But seriously – what are we watching?"

Sam smiled, feeling happier suddenly. "'Dunno," he answered, then moved a hand over to Dean's forehead. "Dean," he called, dropping the whispered tone he and Jess had been using. "Wake up, dude."

"Did you wake him already?"

"Yeah, once before. Dean," he called, shaking him again. His brother shifted and swatted at his hand.

"What season is it?" Sam asked. "What's your full name?"

No response, just Dean shifting on the sofa – or rather on _them_.

"Dean?" he called again, a smile in his voice as he realized that yet again, Dean failed to notice he was lying on his brother's – and now Jess's – lap. "I will get the water."

Hazel eyes opened slowly, and fastened a sleepy version of Dean's Glare of Impending Doom on him. "Fuckin' summer. Dean Matthew Winchester," he muttered, before closing his eyes and going back to sleep.

Sam smiled a little as he smoothed his brother's hair, but his brow was furrowed.

Jess watched him carefully. "He answered correctly," She said.

Sam nodded, sighing, "Yeah – but . . . he . . ." Sam trailed off for a moment, then added, "He'll be okay."

"It's not good that he answered?"

"It . . . he's just . . . tired, I guess."

Jess chuckled, "Me too. It's like almost four . . . . Who _is _that? I've seen that girl before," she commented, pointing at the TV. Sam shook his and told her he didn't know. He wrapped his free arm around her and held her securely against his side; his other arm still carefully holding Dean.

They watched the movie on mute until it was over, commenting quietly on this and that. At one point Jess asked why they didn't just change the channel and Sam told her about the remote slipping into the cushions. They decided Sam would stay with Dean in the morning and Jess would come home early so Sam could go to a lecture class he couldn't miss. Sam would teach her how to change the bandage and check for infection.

"Get some sleep," he told her when another movie was about to start.

She nodded, then patted Dean softly on the top of his head. "Wake him up."

Sam nodded. "Dean," he shook the older man. "It's that time again – wake up," he called loudly.

Dean shifted towards the pillow – into Sam.

"Come on, Dean . . . what mo -"

"Christ on a fuckin' _cracker_, Sammy," Dean slurred, his eyes still closed. "I'm gonna beat the shit outta you if you ask me another friggin' question – shut _up _and leave me _alone_,"he growled groggily.

Then he shifted and burrowed deeper into the pillow – against Sam _and _Jess now.

Sam was silent for a moment, until he was sure Dean was asleep again. Then he grinned at Jess, looking at her in the dim light. "I think he's feeling better," he whispered.

She nodded, smiling as she snuggled closer to him. "Yeah, think so – movie looks crappy," she commented

Sam nodded, dropping his chin onto her head.

Not even five minutes later he felt her breathing even out and knew she was asleep too.

And about ten minutes after that he let himself slip into slumber, snuggled between his two favorite people.

* * *


	8. Sam's Getting Married

**  
**

**Disclaimer: **I do not own "Supernatural"

**Story Summary:** Dean gets a ride to Sam's wedding.

* * *

His pillow was vibrating. Again. 

Dean shifted, groaning and turning over. He knew who it was. He didn't have to check caller ID.

He hadn't checked in.

God, what time was it? Was it morning? Afternoon? Was it still Wednesday? Thursday? His head was pounding, and his shoulder felt like it was still dislocated.

With another groan, he slowly pushed himself up. A moment later he bit back a hiss as his ribs protested the movement. He pulled the phone from underneath his pillow and moved to get up.

The world spun lazily when he stood, but it only lasted for a moment, so he was good to go. With careful steps he headed for the door.

"Dean, 're you 'kay?"

Inebriation and concussions were surefire ways to bring out the caring side of John Winchester.

"Fine, Dad," he offered as he slipped out the door – and closed it firmly behind him. He leaned back against it a moment later, taking slow, shallow breaths and feeling the warm sun on his face. With a soft sigh he pressed the appropriate speed dial button and brought the phone to his ear.

It was picked up before the first ring ended.

"What happened?"

Sam's voice was tight and hurried and _worried._

"I'm fine, chill," he said slowly, careful to keep his words from slurring.

"You're practically slurring," Sam accused. "What happened? You said it was just a poltergeist!"

"It was a poltergeist," Dean defended, eyes still closed.

"Jeez, Dean, you're exhausted. I can _hear _it. What the hell kinda poltergeist was it?"

Dean released a tired chuckle. "A violent one," he murmured. "With friends."

"There was more than one?"

"Four."

"Shit."

"Yeah."

"How far out are you? You could park and I can pick you up?" Sam offered.

Dean laughed, because that had to be a joke. "Funny, Sammy."

"Uh-huh. But seriously, where are you? Remember, you promised to be at the rehearsal dinner . . . try and be on time, okay. You know Jess has a thing about time and R.S.V.P'ing -"

Dean smirked. "Chill, Sam, I've got _days_."

"Funny, Dean."

Dean straightened a little, "Why would that be funny?"

Sam was silent for a moment. "Because the rehearsal dinner is tonight – at eight o'clock," Sam said softly.

Dean was silent for a moment. "Sam. It's like Wednesday."

"Dean, it's Friday. It's 10:38 AM on Friday, the second of October."

Dean's eyes snapped open. "No, it's not."

"Yes, it is." Sam was quiet for another moment, then, "Dean . . .where are you?"

"Holy shit . . ."

"Dean?"

"Holy shit."

"Dean. Where _are _you?"

"Don't worry. I can make it . . ."

"I wasn't worried!" Sam hissed. "I am now! How did you lose two days?"

"Well, not the rehearsal, so tell Jess sorry for me . . ."

"Do you have a concussion? How many walls did you get thrown into?"

"Why do you assume I got thrown into a wall?" he asked, frowning and carefully pushing himself away from the door.

"Because you _always _get thrown into walls. Where are you?"

"Michigan."

"WHAT!"

"Chill."

"We AGREED you would stick close! Fuckin' Michigan is NOT close!"

"Relax, I can make it," he murmured, wincing as he tried to take deep breath.

"You're HURT!"

"Jess is gonna hear you," he cautioned. "I gotta go, Sam."

"Dean -"

"I can make the wedding . . . three o'clock tomorrow, no problem -"

"Dean -"

"Take my tux to the church for me. I'll see you then, little brother."

"Don't hang -"

He pressed the end button before Sam finished the sentence.

For a moment he stared at the closed door in front of him. For an entire summer he'd kept in touch with his little brother. He'd seen him often and talked to him almost constantly. Sammy called erratically, constantly – no pattern whatsoever, as if to test Dean's promise to always pick up. And as a consequence, for an entire summer Dean had been receiving the icy treatment from his father.

The ice was about to crack, though.

No matter how concussed or tired his dad was, he'd notice Dean hightailing out of here when he was barely put-together enough to stand. He'd ask about that, ask why, ask where . . .

With a sigh, Dean opened the door.

There were two ways to go about this. He could hedge or he could spit it out. Since the clock was ticking, he was voting for spitting it out.

John's head lifted from the pillow. The ragged gash stretching from his temple onto his forehead and disappearing into his hairline was visible in the light. "What're you doin'?" he asked, blinking owlishly at his son.

"How're you feelin'?" Dean asked first, because, well, it was Dad and the poltergeist party hadn't been kind to either of them.

"Good enough to know why you're packin'," his father stated, sitting up slowly and running a tentative hand over his face.

"I got somewhere to be," he said, cringing at the underlying hesitancy in his voice.

John frowned. "Where's that?" he asked.

Now or never.

"Sam's wedding."

John Winchester blinked at his son, positive that he'd misunderstood. He was slightly concussed, after all. But the silence stretched and Dean didn't continue. "Say again . . ." he growled, a pressure beginning to build in his chest.

Dean wanted to take a deep breath, to strengthen himself – but just the thought made him wince. "Sam's wedding. It's tomorrow."

The room was silent and he started packing again. He didn't have time to _wait _for Dad's reaction.

Christ, it was _Friday _and he was in friggin' _Michigan._ It was a two-day drive if he shagged ass – to get there in twenty-four hours he was gonna hafta _fly _and he _didn't_ mean that literally, 'cause he wasn't getting on a plane.

"Sam's getting married?"

He'd almost forgotten his father was in the room. The soft words reminded him.

Dean looked up for a minute, pausing on his slow trek to the dresser. "Yeah," he answered. "Tomorrow."

His dad was looking a bit shell-shocked and Dean would love to pause and contemplate what that meant – except he didn't have the time.

"And you're...?"

Again the words were soft, the question barely detectible.

"Best Man. Can't be late." He kept his answer short, saving his breath for the steps he was taking.

John took a shuddering breath, watching Dean's slow progress back to the bed with his stuff.

The kid looked like road-kill. A dark bruise spread up from his left jaw towards his cheekbone, contrasting ghastly with his pale face and the dark shadows under his eyes.

John knew the dark grey t-shirt covered a myriad of bruises on his son's torso, as well. There were cracked ribs, he knew that, too, whether or not Dean wanted to admit to it.

God.

Sam's wedding. Sammy's goddamned wedding.

"Fuck," Dean hissed suddenly, dropping the bag onto the floor abruptly and clutching his right shoulder; apparently, he'd tried to lift it.

Dislocated shoulder, too, John remembered.

"You're hurt," he said, and even to himself he sounded inane.

But Dean understood what he meant, understood what he was trying to say even if he didn't exactly say it. Dean always understood.

"I have to go," his son responded. "I _have _to." His voice had taken on a tiny edge of panic and it did something strange to John's heart.

Dean was indeed beginning to panic. Pain was blurring the edges of his vision and his breath was coming in shallow gasps; the thought of sitting up in a driver's seat for twenty-odd hours straight made him lightheaded.

He was starting to think he might've been a bit prematurely cocky with Sam.

He was starting to think he might've made a promise he had no way of keeping.

He was starting to think he might not make the wedding.

The thought made him nauseous.

John watched Dean pale even more; the kid was starting to look gray. He stood quickly, holding back his own gasp as pain shot through his head.

"Sit down," he ordered, as he neared his boy and pushed him back onto the bed.

Dean did as he was told even as he shook his head no.

"You can't drive," John stated.

Dean swallowed hard, his heartbeat accelerating. He had to drive. He couldn't not go . . . he – just – couldn't – not – go –

"Christ, Dean! Breathe!"

His dad was suddenly kneeling in front of him, gripping his shoulders, and Dean winced as the pressure on his right arm made it throb even more.

"Relax!" his dad yelled.

Dean nodded, pulling in a deep breath and releasing it on a quiet whimper as he reached down and wrapped an arm protectively around his middle. His ribs were throbbing with every beat of his heart.

"I have . . . to go now," he told his Dad. "Can't waste any time."

"You can't drive," his dad repeated, dropping his hands from Dean's arms.

It was true.

Panic exploded through him. Dad was right. He wouldn't be able to drive for _two _hours let alone twenty and some.

He couldn't drive.

But he _had _to get to Palo Alto.

He _had _to.

It was Sam's wedding. God, he'd promised Sammy. He'd _promised _to be there.

"I'll fly." The words were out of his mouth before they'd fully formed in his mind.

The panic doubled as he realized it was the only option. The only way he'd make it in time. He had to fly. He had to get on a plane.

John watched in alarm as Dean's chest rose and fell quickly, much too quickly. And with each breath there was a flash of pain and twitch in his body, a sign that his boy was hurting.

"Dean, you need calm down."

The command fell on deaf ears. Dean continued to draw harsh breaths; whether he knew it or not, the boy was on the verge of a panic attack.

"I have to . . . I have . . . to . . . be there . . . I _have _to, Dad . . . I just . . . I have -" Dean pushed himself up off the bed and made another grab at the duffel bag. He hissed in pain, but didn't drop it this time.

His breathing was labored and he was shaking a little. "I can get there fas-faster if I – if I fl-fly there."

The words were shaky, too; and John was reminded of a time long ago when his blonde little boy had stood at the edge of the pool and asked if he was sure this was fun.

"I'll drive you." The words were out of his mouth before they'd fully formed in his mind.

They were out before he got the chance to analyze what they meant, to realize how much of a concession they were.

They were formed by his heart, which screamed his boy needed him, not by his mind, which yelled he shouldn't give in.

Dean stared at his father for long moments, his harsh breathing the only sound in the room. "You will?"

The question slipped out, soft with wonder and hope.

John swallowed hard, but he nodded. "Gimme a sec to grab my stuff . . . and _Christ_, just sit. Down."

Dean blinked in surprise for a moment, before nodding slowly and moving back to the bed. He sank down onto it.

His dad was going to drive him.

He didn't have to get on a plane.

He didn't have to fly.

His Dad was going to take him to Sammy's wedding...

He didn't have to fly.

The thoughts washed over him, leeching him of the panic and tension, washing away the adrenaline that had coursed through his veins moments earlier.

Dean leaned back against the headboard, resting his body. God, everything just _hurt _suddenly.

His head, his shoulder, his ribs – they all throbbed and burned, but he'd promised Sam. More than that, though, he _wanted _to go to the wedding.

He was _involved _in this – he'd helped Sam pick the band and made gagging noises when Jess had considered eggplant as the color for bridesmaid dresses.

He wanted to go.

"Time to go, son."

His father's words alerted him to the fact that he'd dozed off. He blinked up at the man. "Gotta check out," Dean murmured, words slurring a little with the remnants of sleep. He winced as he sat up straight.

Jeez, but he was more beat up than he'd thought.

"Did it. Everything's in the car, but us..."

"Wha' 'bout the truck?" he asked, rubbing a hand over his face.

"Lucas's gonna drive it over to California for me. He'll be right behind us."

Dean nodded, as he stood slowly, and finally looked at his dad. "Sure you can drive?" he asked quietly, his eyes studying the cut on his father's face.

"I'm not the one that decided he could handle this one on his own when Lucas specifically told us it was a two-man, maybe a three-man job. You're lucky I was only a few hours behind you."

Dean's gaze dropped. He'd known that was coming. He'd rushed into a job, hoping to finish it quickly . . . so he could get back early for the wedding. Irony's a _bitch_.

"You know better than that," John added.

"Yes, sir," Dean replied.

John nodded. "Let's go," he said and turned.

Dean's hand shot out and grabbed his dad's arm. When their gazes met he spoke softly. "Thanks. For doing this, for driving me," he murmured.

John swallowed hard then, nodding; his throat suddenly too tight for words.

_Sammy's wedding._

He was driving Dean to Sammy's wedding.

Didn't that just beat all?

* * *

It was vibrating again. How many times was that now? Definitely past the thirties, late forties? Maybe even into the fifties. 

He had to give his boy credit for persistence.

His boy.

His boy that was getting married – tomorrow. Or rather, today.

The phone must have slipped out of Dean's pocket when John had ordered him to get in the back and lie down. It had vibrated on the backseat floor for close to ten minutes before John had craned his neck and glanced down at the display.

He'd nearly killed them reaching down to pick the phone up while driving.

_Sammy_,the display flashed, and he'd dropped the phone like it was a damn hot coal.

That had been an hour ago and the kid was still calling. It stopped for a few seconds every few minutes, but pretty much he'd been calling for a little over an hour straight.

Dean was conked out in the back and John was reluctant to wake him.

Every once in a while the boy would shift, drawing his father's gaze to him through the rearview mirror.

John would look just in time to see him wince a little, or even whimper. It never failed to make him grip the steering wheel a bit tighter.

It had never gotten any easier – to see one of his boys hurt. He had expected it would.

Dean needed the sleep.

And Sammy was losing it.

Every time the phone vibrated John could practically _feel _his youngest son's panic intensify.

Sammy was panicking.

For a moment, he contemplated answering.

But the moment passed.

There was too much history there; too many things said that couldn't be unsaid over the phone – maybe not even in person.

He wouldn't know _what _to say. He'd stopped knowing what to say to Sam a long time ago.

Maybe he'd never known.

The part of him that would have known had died in that fire.

In another world he would have been proud of his inquisitive, dark-eyed boy; he would have teased the questions out of him and spent hours explaining the answers. He would have encouraged the boy's studies. He would have reveled in the boy's achievements.

In another world, he would have been invited to his son's wedding.

In this world, _his _world, he knew he didn't deserve to be.

He'd made himself clear that night.

If Sam left, he was not to come back.

Sam had left.

That night . . .

There had been rage that night.

Rage and pain – the betrayal of everything he'd ever taught his son.

Fear, too – underlining it all, but mostly there had been rage.

Fury that Sam dared to defy him, to question him, to _dismiss _him and his opinion.

But underneath that, underneath the pain and the fury and the fear, where a tiny sliver of the man he'd been, the man he would've been, still lived, there had been pride.

Sam was strong and smart and stubborn; Sam was his father's son.

The rage had won out, though, over the fear and hurt and pride.

_Stay gone . . . _

He'd roared, and Sam was his father's son, so he had.

The phone stopped vibrating.

John smirked a little. The kid's fingers were probably cramped.

He reached over and lifted the phone; flipping it open, he found _Sammy _in the contacts menu.

Text messaging was a beautiful thing.

EVERYTHING'S FINE

He sent the message and set the phone down quickly.

A moment later the screen flashed and the phone buzzed, then stilled.

He glanced at it.

It was a bad idea. Whatever Sam had texted to that phone, he'd sent it to his brother.

The screen flashed again; the phone buzzed on the seat.

He'd sent that to his brother, too.

Another flash and buzz.

Jeez, the kid had dexterity in those fingers...

He reached out, took the phone in his hand and flipped it open before he'd even processed the order his mind had yelled not to.

THEN PICK UP THE GODDAMNED PHONE

Message two:

WHERE R U?

Message three:

Y ARENT U PICKIN UP?

John was just about to share his attention with the road instead of the phone, when the thing buzzed and flashed in his hand.

R U WITH DAD?

His heart slammed against his chest as he dropped the phone back onto the seat and turned back to the road, gripping the steering wheel with both hands.

_R u with Dad?_

Oh, please.

As if Dean would give a shit that they were together. If Sam was calling . . . Dean would answer. _Had _been answering. John had seen it, the way his oldest would look at the phone and then at him. Dean would meet his gaze as if _telling _him that it was Sam, before he'd make an excuse and go somewhere to be alone.

The phone flashed and buzzed again.

John checked it without a qualm this time.

**DEAN!!!!!!!!!!!!!**

Sam had gone all out on _that_ text. It was in bold and the exclamation points reached the end of the line.

The kid was getting impatient. He would start calling again, soon, and John wasn't exactly strong enough to endure another hour of knowing his kid was just on the end of a phone line.

John sighed. "Sorry, kiddo," he murmured quietly as he pressed the end button on the phone and powered it off. Then set it gently down on the other seat. "It's better this way," he added, feeling unaccountably sad suddenly.

Sammy was getting _married._

He could still remember the defiant look on Dean's face when he'd told him he'd been seeing Sam.

He'd been a fool to think Dean wouldn't – a fool to think Sam wouldn't –

He'd raised his boys to stick together.

Why it had surprised him when they did, he didn't know.

Sam and Dean, Dean and Sam. SamandDean, DeanandSam. It might as well have been one word. His boys had their own way of communicating, their own language; hell, their own universe.

In another world, he might have gotten guest passes once in a while to that universe. In another world, he might've even been granted honorary citizenship. In another world, he might've had a hope of _understanding_ that universe.

In another world, he would have been invited to his son's wedding.

Behind him, Dean shifted on the seat, frowning in his sleep, and John pressed the gas a little harder – the sooner he got Dean to Sam's wedding the better.

Then he could go back to _his _world.

* * *

The car hit a particularly nasty pothole and Dean's limp form jumped in the backseat. 

He moaned softly and opened his eyes slowly. Sunlight streaming in the window. It was burning his face, he realized suddenly and shifted abruptly. Fire erupted in his ribcage at the movement and he hissed in pain.

The car slid to a stop.

"You up?" His father's gravelly voice washed over him.

Dean blinked owlishly again, drawing in a shuddering breath as he attempted to stamp down the pain.

He nodded slowly.

John nodded back. "Good," he murmured. "We need gas and food. We're about four hours outta Palo Alto," he added as he got out of the car.

Dean realized then that they were parked.

His father stuck his head in through the back window suddenly. "Call your brother," he said and tossed something at Dean.

The _something_ landed on his stomach and he frowned at it in confusion for a moment, his hand sluggishly reaching for it.

It was his phone.

With a grunt he shoved himself up to lie against the car door. A quick glance out of the back window showed his father in the convenience store and his dad's truck parked a few feet away. It was safe to assume Lucas was in the store, too.

Dean flipped the phone open and powered it up.

_98 missed calls_

Fuck.

He didn't even have to check to see who it was who'd called. Sam had been busy. He hit the send button and a moment later the phone was ringing.

It was picked up mid-way through the second ring.

"Are you okay?"

Sam was worried. Very, very worried. Dean sighed softly. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"Good, because I am going to kill you."

Okay, scratch that. Sam was pissed. Very, _very_ pissed.

"Listen, Sammy -"

"You send me a fuckin' text-message that everything's fine, but then WON'T PICK UP THE PHONE! Jesus, Dean! I've been goin' crazy here!! You CANNOT do SHIT like THAT!!!"

_A text message?_

He hadn't sent a text message. He'd been asleep for the last . . . Dean glanced at his watch and his eyes widened.

Shit, it was eleven o'clock!

"DEAN!!!" His brother's voice rang in his ear, loud and angry.

"I'm here, Sam," he murmured.

"Where are you?"

Dean blinked, "I'm not exactly . . . I'm close, don't worry, I'm gonna make it."

"You're disoriented?! God Dean – just . . . pull over, man. I'll come get you. Jess said . . . we can postpone the wedding for a couple days -"

"Don't you fuckin' DARE," Dean growled into the phone. Christ, leave it to Sammy to just pile on the fuckin' tension. He should've known Michigan was too far. He should've known handling multiple poltergeists was damn _stupid _. . .

"You hear me, Sammy!" He yelled this time, wincing a little, but determined to get his point across. "Don't you dare! I'll get there . . . I'm almost there."

Maybe.

"You're hurt," Sam replied, as if that settled everything.

"Dude, all I gotta do is stand next to you. I'll be fine."

"_If_ you get here."

"I'll get there."

There was a pause and then, "I don't need to tell you how much I want you to be here, right?"

Dean swallowed past the lump that had suddenly risen in his throat, "I know, Sam."

"Good. Then I don't need to tell you that I'd rather wait a few more days than have you not be here, right?"

His grip on the phone tightened a little. "I'll be there," he repeated.

Sam was silent for a moment. Then, "How close is it gonna be?"

Dean glanced at the window. Dad and Lucas were outside now, still talking. He had no clue where they were, how bad traffic was, or exactly what his father had meant when he'd said _about _four hours.

"Close . . . real close . . ." he admitted.

"Like the bride is getting nervous close or the music is about to start playing close?"

"Like the music _is _playing close . . ."

A hiss over the phone line. "Jesus, Dean..."

"Just set everything out for me and alert the sentries that I'm coming so they don't hold me up."

That garnered a small chuckle out of Sam. "Yeah, okay."

Dean glanced out the window again. Dad and Lucas were shaking hands; Dad would be heading back any moment.

"I gotta go, Sam."

"We can still postpone -"

"Dude. If you let her think about it, she'll get away."

"Shut up, Dean."

"I'll see you later, little brother."

"Okay, yeah . . . but be careful. Pull over if you feel dizzy, and don't cut anyone off, and turn the music _down _so you can _think _about the road choices, and -"

"Yeah, whatever," he cut in, smiling despite himself as he pressed end.

Sammy was such a worry-wart. He sighed; he needed to get up . . . move a little. The thought alone made him wince, but he needed to stretch out his muscles.

He sat up slowly and carefully pulled himself out of the car. The back of his legs screamed, but he gritted his teeth and took a couple steps. He circled the car a few times, lifting his hand in greeting when he caught Lucas looking over at him. Dad was studying him too, but he ignored that stare. He had no hope of comprehending that look.

A few minutes later his father approached, he had a small bag with him. "Let's move," the older man ordered.

When Dean made a move to slide into the passenger's seat his Dad scowled at him and made a noise in the back of his throat. "In the back."

Dean frowned, "Dad -"

"In. The. Back."

Dean sighed, annoyed; he was hurt, not dying. "I'm fine."

The scowl got darker. "Dean -"

"Fine. Whatever," he growled; there really was no time to waste on this.

He slid into the backseat and stretched out again. Refusing to acknowledge, even to himself, that he was more comfortable like this than sitting up straight.

"Eat that," the older man muttered, tossing something at Dean. "And drink this."

Dean frowned as he slowly reached out and took the orange juice his father held out for him. John shifted to face forward again, and started pulling out of the parking spot.

"Juice?" he asked staring at the bottle. His dad hadn't gotten him _juice _since he'd been about eight, maybe nine.

"Drink it," Dad muttered as he pulled out into traffic.

Dean lifted the package his dad had tossed at him and stared at it.

"Wha – is this _fruit?" _he asked in a horrified voice, but he had the answer in front of him. It was fruit; it was one of those packages of freeze dried fruits that people who lived in tents ate.

He studied it. "Are there nuts in here? And _granola_?" Dean lifted his gaze to his father, studying the man's profile. "What's going on?"

"Just eat it."

"It's _granola._"

He saw his father's hands clench on the steering wheel. He wasn't _trying _to annoy the guy, but jeez . . . what the hell was going on?

"You need to eat something. And not your usual sugar-coated-crap." The words were low and forced and it dawned on Dean that his father was concerned about him.

Silently, he opened the package and started eating.

"This isn't so bad," he said after a few minutes. "Want some?"

His dad snorted. "Hell no," he growled, but the eyes that caught Dean's in the mirror were amused.

Dean chuckled at that, then hissed when his ribs protested and nearly gagged on the mouthful he was chewing.

"Jesus, Dean," John hissed, slowing the car and turning to look back at him. "Try not to choke, would ya?"

He coughed a little more, blinking back wetness from his eyes. "I'm allergic to fruit."

Dad rolled his eyes, and for some reason that made Dean smile some more. He settled back against the door and closed his eyes a little. The bag slid from his fingers onto the floor of the car and he didn't care much. The juice sounded good, but he didn't have much of an inclination to move and get it.

He was still so tired . . .

"Did you call your brother?"

The question startled him. The tone, the subject, the question under the question . . .

It took him a moment to shake sleep off; he ran a hand over his face and blinked a few times. "Uh, yeah, yeah . . . I did. He's -"

"Good."

End of conversation; his father's voice was curt, steady and it effectively shut the door on _that_ discussion.

Silence filled the car.

No one could shut a door like John Winchester.

And he remembered suddenly – the text message.

Dean studied his dad's profile. Someone had sent Sam a text message telling him everything was fine . . . and it sure as hell hadn't been Dean.

Dad hadn't asked anything about Sam. The entire summer had passed without them having one single conversation about the youngest member of their family.

After Dad had found out, Dean stopped making a secret of his visits to California. He'd made no secret about his phone calls to Sam, about phone call _from _Sam . . . but still Dad never asked.

Of course, that didn't mean he didn't want to know.

Dean knew his gaze must be burning the older man. He knew that he was staring at his dad . . . but he couldn't tear his gaze away.

His dad's posture was stiff, and his gaze was fastened on the road with much more intensity than was necessary.

They drove in silence for over a half hour. Dean felt himself doze every once in awhile, but mostly he tried to stay awake, in case . . .

In case his Dad said something, _asked _something, _anything _. . . in case he opened that door.

But John remained steadfastly, _stubbornly _silent, focusing only on the road in front of them.

Did his dad even want to know about Sam, about Sam's wedding, about Sam's life?

Probably.

He just didn't want to ask; that would be some sort of concession – and God forbid John Winchester _not _hold a grudge – the world would cease to spin.

Dean let his eyes slide shut for a moment, before drawing in a deep breath and looking up. This was probably the best time – nowhere to run, and he was hurt, so Dad wouldn't beat the shit out of him.

"Her name's Jessica," he offered into the silence.

His dad's gaze shot to the rear view mirror with so much force Dean expected to see the reflection crack.

"Dean -"

"No one calls her that, though. She's a total geek too, but she hides it a _lot _better than Sammy."

The older man shook his head. "Don't -" he growled harshly.

"Why not?" Dean shot back.

The gaze that met Dean's in the mirror was dark. "Because -"

"Don't you want to know?" he asked just as harshly before his father could finish, because he was positive now that his father _did_.

Because he'd caught the older man off guard and his eyes had betrayed him. Dean had seen the way something in them lit up – interest, curiosity, _need _. . .

The silence stretched. His dad wasn't going to answer. He wasn't going to admit to wanting to know.

His Dad couldn't take that step onto middle ground.

That was okay, though.

Dean understood. He always understood.

It was enough that the older acknowledge its existence

"She likes to read those paperbacks you get at the supermarket, you know, the ones with like . . . half-naked men on the cover," he murmured. "She likes to put them on the bookshelves with Sam's _classics_. He has fits over that. She's doin' her masters in child psychology, and has this really annoying habit of starting conversations you're going to hate with '_Don't get defensive.' _And when you _do _get defensive – 'cause, you know, she's telling you that you need to shave more often or something like that – she blinks at you like you've just kicked her puppy and says something like, '_But I told you not to get defensive.' _They have this apartment off campus, but still near the school, that's big and all, but it's sorta crappy. The doorbell downstairs only rings upstairs sometimes, and the hot water turns cold if you turn it all the way; the shower head only works when you haven't used it in two or three days, and the windows don't stay open and some don't open all the way. But there's this room with built-in bookshelves and Sam's in love with it. He's goin' to the law school at Stanford and sometimes he barricades himself in that room with the bookshelves, and doesn't come out for hours. So, sometimes, if he's been in there for _hours _Jess starts slipping notes underneath the door and tapping on it every time she walks by – or she'll start baking something so the smell lures him out. She can bake almost anything, but she'll burn mac & cheese."

His dad made a sound then, something between a sob and a laugh, and Dean stopped talking.

He'd been babbling, he knew that. It was just . . . there was so much to tell, an entire world to share.

"_G__od_,"his father whispered.

They were at a red light and John's head was bent over the steering wheel. For a moment Dean thought the worst, thought his dad was going to look at him tell him to stop, look at him and tell him he didn't want to know, look at him and tell him he didn't care . . .

But when John's head lifted, no words followed. He met Dean's gaze in the mirror for a moment and Dean was struck with how _tired _his father's expression seemed, but still there were no words.

Dean blinked and the car was moving again. He waited, hoping Dad would add something, _say _something else . . . _anything _else.

But the silence stretched and the moments slipped by. His father was retreating. It didn't matter that he wanted to know, what mattered was that Sam had left. Dean could almost hear his father's thoughts in the silent car. It wasn't good enough anymore, though; he wasn't going to let this tear them apart forever.

They were a _family, _goddammit.

He forced himself to look up and take as deep a breath as he could manage. "Sam's gotten pretty at the cooking thing and the laundry thing too," he said softly, watching his father intently for any reaction. "He dusts and he _vacuums – _it's funny as hell," he added, and saw his father's face twitch a little.

A smirk ghosted his lips as he continued, more confidently now. "He and Jess take turns so he's actually gotten pretty good at stuff around the house. If he gets to it, that is. He never really gets to the big stuff, like fixing that stupid shower head. He has this to-do list; it's got like eighty-seven bullet points to it. And I actually mean _bullet points _'cause he keeps it on the computer and every time he adds something to it he prints it out. So there's like dozens of them lying around the apartment . . ."

He paused, waiting to see if John would say anything, but his dad remained silent so Dean continued. "I told him I'd do some of the stuff, but he swears he's getting to it next weekend – every time I've offered. So nothing ever gets done."

Dean kept going after that. He told his Dad about how Sam had pretended to need help in Latin to get to know Jess. He told him about Sam's friends, about Sam's classes, about the penchant his little brother had developed for _lattes. _Dean told him about Sam's plans, and he told him about the wedding; about the planning and where it was happening; about where the reception was going to be; about how Sam and Jess weren't going on a honeymoon until Christmas break; about Jess's Wedding Binder and how he and Sam had hidden from her one weekend; about having to get fitted for a tux, and the bachelor party they'd turned into a road trip. He told his Dad about all the places Jess and Sam had dragged him to, all the things they claimed he _had _to see . . .

"You should'a seen it, Dad. All these people dressed up all fancy and walking around with their noses in the air staring at _deformed clay_. It was ridiculous. They were trying to _interpret _the clay – Jess bought me a cheeseburger for that one. Oh! And she's got this little sister – God, the kid is a _brat! _She makes me want to throttle her. She plays these fucked up mind games with people and she's all giggly about it when she's done . . ."

He told his Dad about Jill's talent for irritating people into rabid madness in three seconds flat, about how the little twerp doesn't like him, about how she just barely tolerates Sam, about how much Jess adores her, about how that makes it so they can't make her _disappear. _He told his Dad that he and Sam thanked God the little brat went to school in Seattle.

There was no response from John, no questions or requests for an explanation. He was silent through Dean's rambling, but sometimes, every once in awhile, when Dean paused to catch his breath, the older man's eyes would meet his in the mirror and Dean just knew, with a surprising certainty – his Dad was hanging on his every word.

He let his eyes slide shut at the thought, a smile tugging at his lips, oddly comforted by the thought that his Dad was listening to him.

* * *

"Come on, Dean. I didn't break the speed limits in five states so you could take a nap outside the church," John murmured, gently shaking the boy. The sleep had done Dean some good, though; he'd lost a bit of the road-kill look. 

John watched him now; Dean was slow waking up, blinking and bringing his hand up to rub over his face.

John glanced at his watch again. "Come on, dude, you gotta a couple minutes, use'm." He encouraged.

Dean seemed to pull himself together, frowning. "Huh?" he murmured, still blinking back sleep.

John smirked a little. The boy's head must be fuzzy as hell. "You've got about four minutes till three."

The hazel eyes widened. "Shit," he hissed, straightening abruptly and then wincing. "Ugh – this _sucks _out _loud,_" he griped, wrapping an arm around his torso and bending forward a little.

"I bet it does," John murmured, then added, just because, "Next time hold off the solo mission."

Dean's gaze dropped, "Yes, Sir."

John's smirk faded. "Get goin'."

Dean nodded, reaching for the door, then he paused and looked over at him with those wide eyes that suddenly made John's heart skip a beat. "Dad . . ."

And John knew instantly what words were about to come out of his son's mouth.

He shook his head. "No," he stated in a voice a bit harsher than necessary.

"You could -"

"No, Dean."

"He wouldn't -"

"Goddammit, I said _no_," John spat out, venom tainting his voice.

Dean flinched.

"Get out of the damn car," he ordered, then added, "I'll park it around the block for you." He clenched his teeth against the urge to say more.

The younger man's eyes dropped for a moment and John waited for him to get out. It would take a few minutes, he knew that. Dean would have to collect himself first, he'd have to swallow the words he wanted to say, suppress what he wanted to do; but in the end, Dean would get out of the car without another word. Dean followed orders.

But time stretched and the boy didn't move. Silence wrapped itself around them and John felt a shiver of concern slide down his spine. Dean was holding himself absolutely still, his gaze fastened on something John couldn't see.

John swallowed hard, "Dean?" he murmured, shifting in his seat, starting to reach a hand out to the boy's shoulder. Dean was hurt, he remembered suddenly.

"You could come with me."

The words were soft and John froze in place, a hand half outstretched towards his son.

The hazel eyes lifted to his, "You could, Dad. You could go in. Sam, he -"

John dropped his hand. "I wasn't invited," he said flatly.

"I'm inviting you."

"No."

Dean's eyes flickered with hurt and John clenched his hands into fists. It had to be this way. He couldn't go in there. He wouldn't.

If anything, the last few hours had reinforced that belief. Dean had shared pieces of that DeanSam/SamDean universe with him; shared them with an enthusiasm and a joy that had taken John's breath away. He wouldn't touch that – didn't want to do anything to ruin that.

His boys deserved that. Dean deserved that – to have Sam and be in Sam's world.

He was human enough to envy them that relationship, but he was father enough to protect it for them too.

He wanted them to have it, to have each other and the easiest way for that to happen was for him to remain on the outskirts.

He had a job to do. A quest he couldn't abandon; and every day that he got closer to understanding it, to finishing it, was a day that danger drew a bit nearer to him.

He couldn't be near them when It came for him. It had taken enough. It would not take his boys.

"Dad, please . . ."

Sam was safe as long he was away – and Dean would be safe as long as John was nowhere near him.

They would be safe together, and judging by Dean's stories they would be happy too.

What more could he want for his boys?

It would be for the best this way.

Sam was firmly entrenched here – he was getting married, for God's sake . . . As for Dean . . . Dean would worry, and maybe look for a little while, but Sammy would keep him grounded, keep him coming back here, keep him away from anything truly deadly.

"Nothing has changed, Dean," John stated, his voice as flat as he could make it. For this to work Dean had to understand that his father's attitude had not changed. He had to believe that the stories had not affected him, believe that his father didn't really care; Dean had to resign himself to this break in their family and just – just stop trying to fix it.

"It's different now, Dad, Sam wants -"

"I did you a favor," John cut in, "but nothing has changed. Sam made a decision. What's done can't be undone, you know that. Now get out. You're late."

The boy jumped a little at that, his gaze dropping again and John felt like a particularly spectacular asshole as he watched his boy draw in a shuddering breath.

Dean was hurt. And Sam was getting married. And he had to keep them safe. They were his boys. The last pieces of Mary. The best parts of the man he'd been. He had to keep them safe. This was for the best.

Still, he knew that what he was about to do was unfair. He knew that what he was going to do to his boys – to Dean, his loyal soldier – was bordering on cruelty. He knew he was being asshole. He knew Dean deserved better.

Dean shifted then, lifting hard, golden eyes to his – pissed off eyes. Dean had always had his mother's eyes – expressive to the point of ridiculousness. It had taken years of drilling about poker faces and practice for Dean's eyes to not tip off every emotion to whoever was watching.

Every once in awhile though, especially when it came to family, Dean's eyes would speak up on their own, communicating things his son would never say.

This time the eyes were fed up, frustrated . . . hurt. This time they screamed _fine, fuck you then._

"Thanks for the _favor_, Dad," he drawled, pushing the door open. John watched Dean gingerly pull himself out of the car.

He wanted to tell Dean to offer Sam his congratulations, to tell the boy that he was proud of him, that he hoped his life would turn out to be exactly what he wanted – what he deserved, what his mother would have wanted.

He couldn't do it, though; couldn't force the words out. It had to be this way. It had to end like this – it had to. It would be easier for them.

He watched Dean cross the street to the church. Dean had started up the steps when the doors were flung open. Two men in tuxes bounded out, the same friendly energy he'd never been able to suppress in Sammy rolling off of them in waves.

They surrounded Dean, tugging him up the rest of the steps, and John tensed despite himself.

Dammit, Dean was _hurt_.

They realized that soon enough. He watched them let his son go.

They were talking fast, gesturing widely and smiling through their obvious exasperation. They were at the door now. Dean paused and looked back at him.

He should look away or he should pull out; he should do anything other than stay here, staring at his boy.

He couldn't move though. It was the last time he'd see his boy for a long time . . . maybe ever. He drank in the image of his oldest son. He longed for the image his youngest.

He watched Dean's chin lift defiantly and he couldn't stop the small smirk that touched his lips when the boy's head tilted fractionally towards the doors of the church, inviting him in.

Dean would never really stop trying.

He didn't shake his head, didn't drop his gaze; he didn't have to. Dean understood.

A moment later he watched the boy disappear inside the church.

* * *

Inside, Dean found his tux in the back room. The jacket had the boutonnière pinned on it already. The shirt had the tie looped around the neck, waiting to be tightened. 

There was note on his shoes. Jess's loopy writing informed him that he _better be okay _and he was _in so much trouble!_

Dean smirked.

Then started getting dressed. They were waiting as long as possible for him. He knew it. It was 3:10 and the music hadn't started.

His ribs, his head, and his shoulder were all throbbing in time with his heartbeat again, but he managed to get dressed in 7 minutes.

Adrenaline was such an awesome thing – Dean he nearly sprinted to the church hall. He slipped in.

The pews were appropriately packed. Sam and the others stood at the altar; Jill and the rest of the girls too.

Sam looked anxious.

The music started then; the bride took her first step, and the best man slid into his place by the groom's side.

* * *


	9. Wedding Epilogue, Pt 1: Pictures

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Supernatural or any of it's characters-- they all own me. :P

**Author's Note**: Hi everyone! Well, 'tis part 1 of the wedding epilogue, finally. Part two will be up in a week or so. I hope you all enjoy it!

Big, big thanks to **Lembas7 **who was sweet enough to beta this for me. Any remaining errors are all mine.

* * *

He could breathe again.

The guys had just slipped into their places around him, smiling and mouthing the words _"__He's here."_ A quick glance at his watch told him they were only a few minutes behind schedule – ten minutes; that wasn't _bad – _and Dean was _here. _

So Sam could breathe again.

He was going _kill_ Dean, though; kill him **dead** for putting Sam through the last day and a half. Christ on crutches. Michigan. _Michigan. _Dean had gone to fuckin' MICHIGAN the week of his _wedding._ And he'd gotten _hurt._

Sam didn't know what pissed him off more – that his brother had gone to Michigan the week of his wedding, or the fact that Dean hadn't _told_ him he was going to Michigan the week of his wedding.

Either way-- not knowing if Dean was going to make it had aged him ten years in the past day. And Dean was going to PAY for that. He was going to paint the apartment or wallpaper the study or take Jill to a scientific lecture or endure Jess's coddling over the surefirearray of injuries he had... or better yet, endure _his_ coddling... and he would _coddle _his brother...

Oh yeah, Dean was going to _pay _for this.

Mike nudged him in the ribs suddenly, motioning towards the priest who was looking at him pointedly. Sam motioned for just one more minute – which was what he'd done the last four times the priest had sent him that look.

He sighed, making eye contact with Mike then Doug and finally Jake. All of whom shrugged.

Jake and Doug came closer and in hushed tones confirmed that they'd met Dean outside. They swore he was here, that he'd been dropped off-- which, if it was true, didn't bode well at all. They moved back to their places, still insisting that Dean had been heading towards the back room to change when they'd last seen him.

But that had been at least five minutes ago-- and he didn't doubt for one second the guys would lie so he'd calm down-- and to buy Dean more time, of course.

He'd told the organist to wait for his signal, but the priest was on a schedule and the guests were twitching. He glanced at the guys again. They gave him the same motion he'd given the priest-- one more minute.

But_ Christ, _theguests were murmuring in the pews. He could practically hear them wondering if the bride had run off or something. Jess's family was starting to look worried.

A smile touched his lips at the thought of Jess. He had to commend her really; she'd managed to keep it together much better than he had. She was practically calm about all this and he was NOT.

The priest cleared his throat again and Sam swallowed hard. It was time. He glanced at his watch; it was past 3:15. It was time.

**DAMMIT.**

Where was Dean?

He looked at Doug again, the other man shrugged and mouthed, _"He's here,"_ while giving a vigorous nod.

Yeah, sure.

Sam looked over at the organist and nodded slightly-- **DAMMIT, ****_DEAN._**

The first cord struck and Sam felt one of the guys step closer to him, closing in the gap that was supposed to be filled by Dean. He didn't shift to see which one, it didn't matter-- it wasn't Dean.

It was supposed to be Dean.

He couldn't do this if it wasn't Dean.

It. Had. To. Be. Dean.

He would tell Jess when she got up here. She would understand. They'd announce it together.

It had to be Dean.

Sam managed a wink for the flower-girl, Jess's cousin's daughter-- Amy, he thought-- maybe. He watched the bridesmaids as they made their way down the aisle.

They were wearing a shade of lavender that they, along with Jess, had agonizedover. He'd never in his life seen so many hours devoted to the selection of a _shade _of a color. Jill met his glance with a surprisingly concerned one of her own. Kerrie shot him a questioning look. Lacey arched an eyebrow towards him.

And then Jess appeared at the end of the aisle; beautiful, radiant-- _his_. She smiled at him, her gaze on his for a long moment, then it slipped past him to study the scene at the altar. Her smile faltered, realization flashed in her eyes -- Dean wasn't here; her smile returned, softer, sympathetic, understanding.

They would announce it together.

The music changed to the Bride's Waltz, the guests stood, and Jess took her first step. Sam's eyes remained fastened on her, drinking her in.

He heard a sharp grunt and quick shuffling behind him and then a warm arm leaned against his side.

His breath caught.

_Dean._

He didn't have to look away from Jess to know that Dean was suddenly at his side. Dean was here. He leaned back a bit and was rewarded with a teasing nudge in his ribs.

_Dean was here. _

Jess was a little closer now and he watched as she visibly brightened; her smile wider, her steps firmer.

Dean was here... there was nothing to announce... they were getting married.

The song was suddenly clearer, the flowers suddenly looked fresher, the sunlight streaming in through the windows was suddenly brighter.

She reached him at the altar and placed her hands in his. He wrapped his fingers around hers, squeezing them gently, lifting her hands to his lips; the priest began to speak, but for a long moment all that existed was Jess's blue eyes and the knowledge that they were getting _married._

Luckily, he came to in time to say his vows.

* * *

"So a truck hit you or what?" Jill snapped. 

Dean grinned at her. "More like I got slapped with the good-looking stick," he murmured, adjusting his tie; then he eyed her up and down. "You did too, baby."

"Don't make me have to add to the collection of colors on your face," she hissed, grabbing his arm. "And thanks for making my sister's wedding pictures look like something out of Jerry Springer."

Dean hissed as she pulled him towards the limo; the wedding party was taking it to the hotel where the reception was being held.

"What?" she asked, slowing down.

"Easy on the merchandise, sugar," he murmured, carefully pulling out of her hold.

Her eyes narrowed. "You're actually _hurt,_ aren't you?"

He frowned at her; for such a hottie, she was kinda slow, wasn't she? "Well, yea--"

"You're such an asshole," she hissed, before he could finish. "You did this so you don't have to dance."

Dean blinked at her in surprise, a slow smile starting on his face – the waltz. He'd forgotten about it; had pretty much refused to think about it. Not only had it hurt to lose a _bet _of all things to Jess, but it had nearly crippled him to have to have to take _dance lessons._

He was a Winchester, goddammit.

A Winchester didn't take _ballroom dancing..._ but a Winchester **did **hold up their end of a bargain and he'd made a deal-- a bet and he'd lost.

The price had been a waltz at the reception. Learning it hadn't been that hard, actually... if you could get past how fuckin' pansy-assed it was, that is; which he couldn'tbecause he was aWinchester and Winchesters didn't get past stuff like that.

As a Winchester he was perfectly aware of the fact that he was spinning around in a goddammed circle to fuckin' _classical music._

But he was hurt...

So... he wasn't going to have to do the waltz...

Jess wouldn't make him and he wasn't going to offer – 'cause this was a gift from _God._

He wasn't going to have to do the waltz.

His smile turned into a grin. He suddenly LOVED poltergeists. He LOVED them.

"You're such an ass." Jill hissed again.

"Don't be mad, baby, if I can't dance it, neither can you-- we're partners remember," he stated, purposefully leering at her when he said _partners_and as if on cue, her face flushed and she scowled – she was so easy.

"**Don't **call me baby! And Jess will find someone for me to dance with! You know she will!!"

Dean chuckled. "Yeah, probably – sucks, huh?"

"Asshole," she snarled and stalked towards the limo without him.

He grinned at her back, then slowly walked off in the opposite direction she'd been pulling him in. 'Cause yeah, no way was he leaving his baby here.

His smile faded as he neared the Impala. Dad had parked her for him, around the block just like he'd said he would. The keys were inside, so he carefully picked the lock. It took him longer than usual. His hands were shaking – god, he needed a beer.

He slid into the driver's seat, leaned back, and closed his eyes for a minute.

Dad had left.

Dad had brought him all this way – and then he'd left. He hadn't talked to Sammy, hadn't even _seen_ Sammy. He hadn't met Jess...

Dad had just _left_.

The thought swirled sadly in his mind for a long moment. Then he forced himself to sit up and start the Impala.

Dad had left.

That asshole thing must be genetic.

* * *

"What do you _mean_ he didn't come with you?" 

The members of the wedding party exchanged quick looks. They all knew where this was going. The same place it had been all day.

"Uh, he wasn't in the limo," Kerrie explained quietly, trying to resist the urge to take a step back as Sam's laser hot gaze fastened on her.

"He didn't come with us," Doug repeated carefully, reaching up to loosen his tie a little bit.

Sam took a deep breath, telling himself to _calm down_ Committing a murder on his wedding day would not make Jess happy.

"Where is he?" he asked, for what felt like the seventh trillion time that day.

There was silence for a long moment, then Jill's irritated voice cut in, "How the heck are we supposed to know?" she hissed, "Are we done here?" she asked, arching an eyebrow, "I hear the place to be is _inside with the guests_," she drawled, motioning towards the hallway that led to the ballroom where the reception was being held.

"Calm yourself, Jillian," Lacey drawled, patting the girl's shoulder. Lacey usually took it upon herself to tone Jill's habitually brash attitude down a few notches.

"He looked _beat_to me," Jake offered as if this somehow would make up for the fact that Dean had been _late_to Sam's wedding and was _not_at the hotel, _not_at the reception, _not_here. Again.

"Looked kinda hot in the tux if you ask me," Kerrie added, trying to lighten the mood as she shot Doug a brilliant, teasing smile.

Doug scowled at her, but there was relief in his eyes. A _thank you_ for giving him, and the others, something to focus on other than the _Dean's not here _drama that had been going on with Sam all day.

Lacey jumped in, "I think you all look rather gorgeous in your suit's," she added. "Very dapper!"

"But where _is_ he?" Sam hissed, looking around at them as if one of them could pull Dean out of their pocket.

"Sam! Come **on**!" Jess cried, joining them in the lobby, the train to her dress wrapped around one arm, "We have a ballroom full of people waiting to watch us waltz!"

"Dean's not here- _again_." Jill spat at her sister.

Jess's step faltered, her eyes going round, "What? Where is he? What happened?"

"I don't **_know_**" Sam answered, his tone taking on the pitiful quality that made Jess want to start demolishing whatever put it there.

"_You_ were the one who said you'd go get him," Mike pointed out calmly to Jill. "I saw you with him."

Sam whirled on the small girl. "What did you say?" he snapped accusingly, all traces of anything pitiful gone.

Jill's eyes widened, "Oh **puh-lease**! Are you seriously considering this is MY fault?"

"You do kinda pick on Dean a lot," Kerrie stated.

"He's the one who was late and you know he's not gonna do that stupid dance! He's acting all wounded and he's gonna pull some 'I'm injured' story on you--"

"He _is_ injured!" Sam hissed.

"He told me he'd perform _show tunes_ before he'd waltz in public and then he mysteriously gets hurt the day of -"

"It's not that mysterious," Lacey interjected. "His job is rather perilous, isn't it?"

"Dude gets to shoot stuff. I totally need a new job," Jake sighed.

"You just got your job."

"I hate it."

"You can't hate it. You've been there like a week."

"I hate it."

"What did you say to Dean?" Sam asked, his tone almost angry. He wasn't in the mood for this. He'd just gotten _married_, for fucks sake.

"Nothing!"

"You guys talked a bit," Mike insisted. "I saw you..."

Jill rolled her eyes, "If he ran off in a snit 'cause I called him an ass then -"

"You said what?!" Sam growled.

"Sam." Jess's quiet voice seemed to ripple in the air, she put a hand on his arm, looking up into his eyes, reminding him of their unspoken rule – no matter how annoying Jill got, she was off limits; Jess's baby sister.

He released a long breath and yanked his arm back from her touch. He didn't want to be touched. He wanted Dean to be here. Now.

"Why don't all of you head on into the ballroom." Jess suggested, her voice lined with steel, her eyes fastened on Jill.

The younger girl nodded slowly and moved to do her sister's bidding. A moment later the others followed suit.

Sam stared at Jess for a long moment after they left.

She'd been willing to post-pone the wedding. Even at the last minute she'd been ready. She'd stood at the end of that aisle and met his gaze and known that he couldn't do this if Dean wasn't there, if Dean wasn't at his side. She deserved better than this, than this attitude – today was her day.

Abruptly he reached out, pulled her into his arms, and kissed her. His arms wrapped around her, holding her to him, tasting her, loving her...

Jess drew in a ragged breath when Sam finally released her. "Huh...? What...? Wow..." She took another deep breath. "What was **_that_** for?"

"You're my wife," Sam whispered, leaning his forehead down to hers.

Her lips quirked upwards a little. "I am," she affirmed softly.

They were silent for a moment, before Jess pulled back. "Sam... we... have guests... I mean..." she said softly, motioning vaguely in the direction they were supposed to be heading.

"I know," he interrupted, nodding.

She nodded, but didn't say anything.

He sighed. "Where _is_ he?" he asked, running a hand through his hair.

Jess _tsk_ed at him, reaching up at swatting at his hand. "Don't do that!" she cried. "You'll make it messy!"

He eyed her incredulously. "My hair is not our biggest--"

"He looked exhausted and hurt, Sam," she interrupted him. "Maybe he went to get some rest somewhere."

He shook his head. "No, he would call... he would have told me or... something... he wouldn't just not--"

"He'll make it," she cut him off and that almost made him smile. The number times Jess had said that in the past day easily equaled the number of times Sam had asked _"Where is he?"_

"In the meantime – we have to... you know... go in there," she stated, motioning towards the hallway that led to the ballroom.

Sam groaned exaggeratedly, "Are you sure we have to do this stupid dance?"

She smiled. "Yes. My daddy will lead me out and then you're gonna cut in and then Dean and Jill will join -" she cut herself off, realization dawning. "That's what Jilly meant..."

Sam nodded. "I don't think Dean did it on purpose though," he defended.

Jess scowled. "I wouldn't be surprised! The two of you have done nothing but _bitch _about this," she complained.

Sam shrugged. "Waltzing isn't exactly something we... did growing up."

"_Nobody _waltzes growing up! But the two of you were acting like it was a death sentence!"

"You made us take ballroom dancing, Jess," Sam deadpanned. "Do you have any idea what would happen if that got back to--"

"Oh please, all the guys were taking lessons too! Jake even admitted he _liked _it."

Sam wasn't listening anymore, though, his mouth drawn into a tight line. He hadn't been about to mention his friends – the word about to slip from his lips was _Dad. _And that was a word, a thought, he hadn't allowed himself for a long time.

His Dad – who wasn't here.

For all he and Dean had shared since June, John Winchester was a taboo subject between them. They never actually _spoke _of him. They communicated about him sometimes. He was mentioned by Dean occasionally, in an _I-have-to-meet-Dad _sort of way. Sam occasionally asked if Dad had been on a certain hunt with him. Otherwise though, the topic of their father was one neither wanted to discuss.

John Winchester was shaky ground, and they liked the steadiness of the ground they'd found.

"It wasn't that bad," Jess continued, smiling. "For all your bitching, the two of you are kinda . . . graceful," she added, the smile turning into a smirk. Sam pulled his thoughts together, away from his Dad – and his Dad not being here, and focused on Jess's bright eyes.

He and Dean had lost a bet to her – she'd **cheated**,he _knew_ that; he didn't know _how _and he couldn't prove it, but he _knew _it...

Still, they'd lost – and a Winchester never reneged on a bet.

"Great. I'll put that on my resume – _is graceful,_" Sam griped, a smirk touching his own lips. "Are you sure you don't just want to dance with your Dad?"

Jess rolled her eyes. "I'm sure. It's _symbolic _for him to pass you on to me" she finished; a moment later the smile faded from her face. "We need to go in, Sam," she whispered. "We're you know... kind of the guests of honor here," she added wryly.

He returned her smile, but it didn't reach his eyes.

She sighed and he felt like shit for making her sigh like that on her wedding day. "He'll get here, Sam. He will. He got to the ceremony, didn't he?"

"Yeah -"

"So he'll get here too; you know how he is... for all we know he might'a stopped to get the Impala washed or something... make sure she looked her best..."

Sam chuckled a little. "Yeah..."

"Right, so stop worrying – it'll be fine. The reception won't be over for hours still – he'll make it. We can hold off the formal photos until he gets here."

He actually laughed at that. "I completely forgot about the wedding pictures..."

Jess smiled and waved a hand towards Sam's head. "'Tis why you can't touch your hair."

Sam rolled his eyes, but smiled at her, taking a deep breath as they made their way towards the ballroom entrance. "You look gorgeous, did I tell you that?"

"Yep, but feel free to rinse and repeat as often as necessary..."

He grinned at her, pulling her towards him again.

She giggled, "Sam we're never gonna get inside!"

"Do we _really _have to do this?" he asked, grinning, "I mean we just got _married, _I can come up with something better to do--"

Jess laughed. "_After, _right now we have -"

"- A ballroom full of people, yeah, yeah," Sam muttered, but didn't release her. Instead he went to kiss her again.

"Nuh-uh-uh..." she teased, pulling away."_Later_..."she drawled, carefully walking backwards towards the door; leading him into the room where he had to waltz_.  
_  
Sam sighed. Dean probably **_was_** on his way... and on the bright side-- if Dean wasn't here then he wouldn't be witness to The Dance. And therefore, Sam wouldn't be reminded for the rest of his natural life that he'd had to _waltz _at his wedding.

Yeah, that was a bright side.

Still, Dean was still gonna _pay _for this...

* * *

Everyone clapped and stood when they walked in. Everyone grinned and shouted their congratulations. Everyone wanted to come up and hug them, clap him on the back, kiss the bride... 

Sam had a particular problem with the last one.

Everyone laughed when he unceremoniously yanked Jess away from her cousin's date who'd wanted to wish the bride well.

People were clamoring for their attention, gathering around them as they tried to make their way past the entrance.

They made it just past the center of the ballroom arena before they had to stop moving. They were surrounded on all sides now.

He felt people patting his back and tugging his sleeves and the buzz of talking and laughter was disorienting him a little. The hunter in him was on edge-- too many people, too close, no weapons, no exit...

He blinked as Jess's father shook his hand, then her mother reached up for his face and pulled him down to give him a kiss on the cheek. A woman he thought might be an aunt patted his cheek with a weathered hand and wiped away what he assumed were traces of someone else's lipstick.

Men were thumping his back behind him, women were clustered in front of him wanting to hug him and _god_... had he known Jess had this much family?

He felt like he was being mobbed. His line of vision kept changing because he kept having to bend down to hug the women. It was hard to keep track of faces, even of Jess, who was hovering near him but not close enough for his liking.

... that guy had actually been about to _kiss_ her.

He was being hugged by her cousin Beth, who wore enough perfume for him to taste it, when a collective gasp went up in the crowd near him.

He knew before he looked up.

Jess's laughter confirmed it.

He looked up and found Jess steadying herself against a grinning Dean who had the tail of her wedding gown wrapped around one of his arms. He'd used it to yank her out of the crowd and towards him.

A smile bloomed on Sam's face. Good idea-- he'd be using that later.

Their gazes met and Dean smirked, "My turn to congratulate the bride, little brother," Dean announced, a teasing lilt to his voice.

Sam's smile turned into a mock scowl. "Don't," he warned, over the sounds of the crowd talking.

Jess's family didn't really know much about Dean and even Sam had to concede that his brother looked a bit... scandalous at the moment.

He'd removed the tie, so the collar was up around his neck; he'd pulled-out his shirt so it was hanging out past the end of the vest. There was no jacket to speak of, and god alone knew what he'd done with the boutonnière. The bruises on his face stretched from the side of his jaw up towards his hairline in lovely shades of purple. His hair stuck out at odd angles and there was a cut just below his hairline – thankfully, it wasn't actually _bleeding_. It looked about a day old to him...

Dean looked like he'd gotten into a fistfight on the way to the wedding. Which was actually not as bad, as say – the _truth_, he thought wryly.

Dean was grinning at him as he wound the tail of the wedding dress a little tighter, pulling Jess a bit closer. She laughed.

"Don't worry, Sammy – she's stuck with ya now..." Dean comforted, then looked down at Jess. "Ya could'a had the good-lookin one, baby..."

She grinned, rolling her eyes at him.

Nervous laughter rang up around them. It amused Sam, did Jess's family didn't think Dean was being _serious_?

"Right..." Jess drawled, arching an eyebrow, "... 'cause you're lookin real good right now..."

Dean shrugged and winked at her. A moment later Sam watched as his brother bent forward towards Jess and then he hugged her.

He pulled her upwards a little and wrapped her up in a big bear hug that caught Sam, and probably Jess too, by complete surprise. Sam blinked at the sight and swallowed past the lump that had suddenly risen in his throat.

He took quick steps forward – _he_ wanted one of those.

People had backed away, had gone back to their table to wait for the celebration to officially begin.

By the time Sam reached them Dean had released Jess and she was looking up at him with wide eyes.

She shifted to look at Sam quickly, then back at Dean. She reached up and pressed her hand to Dean's forehead. "I think he's sick," she told Sam, her tone amused.

Dean laughed and swatted her hand away. "I'm fine."

"Are not," she spat back, the amusement gone. "You're hurt," she argued, frowning as she studied him.

Sam glanced at her, then at Dean who was looking at him. They stared at each other a moment, before Sam frowned. "Where were you?"

Dean smirked a little, "Around, little brother, around-- had somethin' to take care of."

"On the way to my _wedding _reception?"

"Yep, it couldn't wait. Very important stuff."

Sam glared at him. Dean offered him a sunny smile. And Sam remembered – he wanted one of those...

He arched his eyebrows at his brother and then motioned towards Jess, "She's not the only one that got married you know."

Dean shrugged, smile fading, looking almost uncomfortable suddenly, "I know -" he said softly. "Congratulations..."

Sam grinned, all bad humor disappearing. "And?" he asked, cheekily.

Dean frowned. "And what?"

"_She _got a hug."

Dean blinked at him. "So?"

"So..."

"Dude. I'm not hugging _you_."

Sam tried to pout, but it was hard to manage around the grin; and he _was _grinning because he was totally going to win this one. "But it's my _wedding_ day..."

"Sam -"

"He's right, Dean. You should hug your brother. You're never again going to get the chance to hug him at his wedding."

Dean frowned at Jess. "I might -" he grinned suddenly and let his gaze travel the length of Jess's figure. "You could wizen up and run away with me... then he'd have to get remarried."

Jess laughed. "Don't hold your breath, Fonzi, I'm stupid for life."

Sam laughed, reaching out and pulling her back against him in a gesture that clearly screamed _mine_ Dean sighed in mock sadness and carefully unwound the train of her dress from his arm.

"Well?" Sam stated when Dean was finished.

"Well what?"

Sam took a step forward, "It's my _wedding_, Dean... and you were _late_..."

Dean sighed.

"Go on, Dean..." Jess prodded.

"Fine." The older man stated glumly and took a step forward.

Sam grinned and came closer too, extending his arms.

Dean paused suddenly just as they were about to touch, shooting a dark look at Sam, "Don't get used to this," he warned. Sam grinned and reached forward, pulling Dean into a hug; his smile widening impossibly when he felt Dean hug him back. He heard Dean gasp when he squeezed him and he loosened his hold a little.

"Seriously Sammy," Dean's voice rumbled against his shoulder. "Congratulations – you – you did good."

Sam felt a sting of tears burn his eyes. His hold on Dean tightened even as he told himself not to, that Dean was hurt; but he just couldn't help it.

"Thanks," he murmured, "Thanks... for just... for..." He'd meant to say thank you for coming, for being here, for finding middle ground and not pretending he died like Dad had for the past four and a half years – but the sound of a camera shutter startled the words away.

Sam heard Dean hiss in pain as the brothers jumped apart, but they were too slow. The flashes had gone off and now that they weren't hugging they could see there was a semi-circle of camera's surrounding them.

They both stared at the professional photographer first; his had been the shutter they'd heard. He stared back at them, a look of _it's-my-job-so-deal_ on his face and then he shrugged, moving off to photograph something or someone else.

Turning around they found Lacey, Kerrie, Jill and Jess all grinning at them-- all with cameras in their hands.

"That may have been the most adorable thing I've ever seen," Lacey drawled. "Small babies and newborn kittens included."

"You didn't..." Dean accused, shifting carefully to look at Jess.

She grinned wickedly. "Oh, I did. And I'm taking the best one and framing it and putting it on the mantle, and pointing it out to every one who ever comes through my front door – yep, I am," she stated, and then stuck her tongue out at him. "That's for being late."

"Sam!" Dean cried, watching Jess flounce away towards the bridal table.

Sam blinked. "What?"

"_Do_ something!"

Sam grinned, "Like what? Take her camera and destroy it?"

"Yes!"

"Don't be such a baby," Jill drawled, coming up next to them. "It's just a picture."

"Shut up."

"Behave, guys," Sam warned. "You two have to sit next to each other and smile and pretend like you don't want to gouge each others' eyes out."

"Says who?" Jill asked.

"Says your sister..." Sam warned. Then looked at Dean, "You – come with me." He stated, firmly grasping his brother's arm.

Dean's eyes widened almost comically as he took in the suddenly stern expression on his brother's face.

"I can't... I have to... to go sit by Jill and... and... pretend like I don't wanna gouge her eyes out... 'cause Jess said--"

"Come on, Dean."

"Are you sure now is the right time for fratricide, Sam?" Jill asked, calmly. "I don't by any means want to deter you from the notion – or," she glanced at Dean, "... you from fighting back . . . . But, well, my parents are under the rather quaint illusion that this marriage is rather perfect, and they've spread the hallucination to the rest of my extended family... so yeah. No bloodshed at my sister's wedding. It's enough with Rocky here."

They stared at her.

"You're such a brat," they said in unison.

She grimaced. "You're doing that adorable thing that makes me nauseous, again."

"I hate to... you know, take the devil's spawn's side here... but uh, I don't think now's the best time to chat, Sammy." Dean commented.

Sam sighed, "Fine. Okay... it's just... are you... okay?"

"Oh _gag_," Jill cried, clamping a hand over her mouth, "Let me go before you two start _embracing _again."

They watched her flounce away in the same direction Jess had taken. Jess was talking with her father and the orchestra leader. Sam sighed, knowing his fate was sealed – he was dancing.

Then he shifted his look to Dean.

"Well?" he asked.

Dean sighed. "I'm fine, Sam," he offered quietly, suddenly aware that he and Sam were the only ones left on the ballroom floor. "We should--"

"Are you sure?" Sam asked, anxiously, "You don't look--"

"I'm sure."

"I don't believe you."

"Tough," Dean smirked and motioned towards Jess, "You got a bride to dance with."

Sam eyed Dean warily, "Come on, I'll show you where you're sitting," he murmured.

"Dude. I know where I'm sitting," Dean answered, amusement in his voice as he looked down to where Sam had grabbed his arm in a loose grip. "We stole the Bridal Binder together, remember?"

Sam grinned suddenly, as he led Dean towards the Bridal Table. "God, that was fun. I've never seen Jess get so hysterical."

Dean laughed and covered up his gasp of pain with a cough – which made it worse. He had to stop on their slow trek. Sam tensed.

"_See_," he murmured, "You're _not _okay."

Dean took a moment to catch his breath and then bestowed his baby brother with a wide grin, "Jess's got some pretty _hot _cousins... I might feel better later."

Sam glowered at him. "Dean," he began warningly.

"Cripes, Sam, it's your _wedding __–__you hafta relax, you're too tense_."

Sam glared at him as they reached the table. "Fine, but don't move around too much and don't_ drink_I'm sure you've taken some kind of painkiller and I don't want you to pass out or somethin' -"

"Can I _breathe_? Is _that_ okay?" Dean drawled.

Sam sighed. "Just be careful, Dean. Don't make yourself... tired." Sam murmured, eyeing him with concern.

"I'm fine, dude."

"Be sure to send that memo to the side of your face that's dressed in black and blue."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Jess is waving you over," he told Sam.

Sam glanced over at her quickly, then back at Dean.

They stared at each other for a moment. Then Sam offered his brother a small smile, "Thanks man, for – coming."

Dean returned the small smile. "No problem, Sammy, no problem," he murmured.

Sam's smile widened. His brother was a goddamned _liar--_it had **totally **been a problem for him to get here.

It was one of those things they wouldn't talk about, though; like Sam waiting up all night for the call that Dean was finished with a hunt, or Dean driving 300 miles out of his way for a 20 minute visit.

"I'll be back," he stated.

Dean shrugged – only one shoulder. "I'll be here." He paused, then grinned at Sam. "Watching you – twinkle toes."

Sam frowned. "Shut up," he shot back, quickly; his eyes carefully watching Dean as the older man sat down.

"I'm fine," Dean growled, noticing Sam's scrutiny. "Go!"

"I'm going!"

"So go!"

"Okay!"

Dean laughed lightly. "You're such a girl."

Sam practically spun on his heel as he turned away and headed to where Jess was waiting.

* * *

"Come on!" 

"Let go, Sammy," Dean ordered, glaring at his brother. "I said no."

"Dean, you don't get to say _no, _it's not one of those _option _things."

"I'm not doin' it. I'm injured!"

"Jess said she can fix that!"

"I'm not putting MAKE-UP on!!"

Sam released his arm, the uninjured one, thankfully, and frowned at him, "You were late; to my _wedding."_

Dean released a long sigh. "That is gonna get old _fast__,"_he grumbled.

"The pictures are important, Dean. Usually people do formal pictures _before _the reception, but, well... since _the__ best-man _was _late _we couldn't do that."

"Sam..."

"So we put it off and the photographers went through a lot of trouble setting up all that stuff over there and we've had to inconvenience the guests by telling them to stay away from there and -"

"SAM."

"- and I need you to be in the pictures, because god knows that one day someone will doubt that you actually ever _wore _a tux and I will need the photographic evidence and plus you're my _brother _and I _want _you in them, not just 'cause you're the best man, but because... I mean... you _have _to be in the picture; you're -"

"Oh, _christ _Sammy. Okay, man, don't break out into tears or anything."

Sam grinned, "Okay, cool. Come on." He motioned towards the other side of the room. Jess and the rest of the wedding party were already over there. When they approached, Jess grinned.

"Okay, Dean, I'm all ready for you. Sit down right, here," she motioned towards a chair. On the table near the chair sat several little bags as well as brushes and little white pads.

Dean stared at it.

"Sit down, man," Sam urged, pushing him lightly.

He shook his head, "No way. I can't do this. I can't-- _make-up... _I--"

"Don't be a baby, Dean." Jill taunted, flitting in front of him and suddenly he realized that all the girls were watching him – standing almost at attention. Jess was still grinning.

"I had all the girls give me all the make-up they had because I don't know exactly how much you'll need."

"It looks like a lot to me," Jill added. "I mean that whole side of his face--"

"I'm not doing this," Dean hissed, getting up. "Forget it."

Sam glared at him. "You were _late,_" he stated, practically pouting.

"Sam--"

"It's not a big deal." Lacey offered softly. "Men wear make-up for photographs all the time."

Kerrie nodded and patted Dean's arm lightly.

Lacey continued, in that soft, purely logical tone that Dean had learned to hate. "And it's a small sacrifice to make when you compare it against the longevity of these photos."

Kerrie nodded again, "I mean think about it-- when Sam and Jess have _kids, _their kids will look at these pictures-- your _nieces _and _nephews..."_

"And you don't want those children, _Sam's _children, to be wondering what happened to their Uncle instead of focusing on how happy their parents are... you don't want these beautiful pictures to be marred by something that can be so easily concealed..."

"I mean -"

"Okay! Stop it! I get it." He growled, he knew they could and _would _go on until he agreed. He sat back down. Sam chuckled, Dean shifted to send him a deadly glare, "_One _word," he threatened, "One _word _and I--"

"He's not going to say anything." Jess comforted. "Not ever," she added, shooting a warning look towards Sam.

Sam grinned and rocked back on his heels.

Jess rolled her eyes and gently took Dean's chin into her hands, the girls crowded around, "Okay, lets see... and be gentle guys—I bet all this hurts…" she murmured patting his cheek very lightly.

They all nodded, eyes studying Dean's face intently.

"His coloring is lighter than Sam's," Kerrie stated. "Mine too, maybe yours or Lacey's cover-up will work best," she offered to Jess.

"Yeah, mine won't work either," Jill commented. "Wrong tone. But yep, yours should work, Jess; and you're probably gonna need to use Lacey's too, there's a lot to cover..."

Jess nodded, "All along his cheekbone..."

"I really hate to see the freckles covered up," Lacey added.

"... really good cheekbones..."

"... yeah, the freckles are kind of adorable..."

"... gag me..."

"... the freckles on his nose we don't need to touch..."

"... we can blend around them..."

"Oh my _god, _could you _**not **_talk about it!" Dean hissed, jerking back when one of them brushed fingers over his nose. They all straightened a little and shot amused looks at each other.

He glared, but they ignored him as Jess bent over him again. "Hand me the applicator..." she murmured.

Nearly ten minutes later they were still _blending _and Dean was ready to scream.

"Okay, I think that looks good," Jess finished.

"... maybe a little more right there..." Lacey pointed.

Dean squirmed, "She _said _that's good." He contradicted, trying to pull away.

Jill giggled suddenly, "You know we should put some blush on him so he doesn't look so pale..."

"You're right--" Kerrie murmured, nodding.

"... and eyeliner-- to highlight the eyes... "Jill continued.

"He does have such nice eyes..."

"No way!" Dean growled, reaching up and pushing all the arms away. "I'm finished. No more." He stated adamantly, swatting at their hands with one arm, moving his right arm sent stabs of pain off in his shoulder. They all chuckled and he glared at them for good measure. They drew back, smirking, and started putting the cosmetics away.

"Do you want to see yourself?" Jess asked, cheekily, "... see how pretty you look?"

Sam chuckled, as he came up behind her, "It looks fine, Dean." He offered, "You can't even tell-- of course all of us will always _know _that you were wearing--"

Jess elbowed him in the ribs. "Leave him alone. Only the girls get to tease him." She warned.

Dean smirked at him, "Ha!" He cried.

Sam frowned, "But he's wearing..."

"Sam," Jess warned again, eyeing him sternly and Sam grinned suddenly - she was gonna be an awesome Mom.

"Okay, so let's get this show on the road!" Dean cried. "Sooner we get finished, sooner I can scrub this shit off."

The girls chuckled and Sam watched as Lacey lead Dean closer to where the tarp and lights had been set up. He grinned. as Doug eyed his brother's face; Jake coming up on the side to do the same.

"Stop it," Jess warned, looking up at him as she tugged him in the same direction.

Sam chuckled and looked away, his eyes met Jill's amused ones, and for a moment they were in perfect accord. No younger sibling could pass up an opportunity this golden. Of course, he'd have to save it until Jess wasn't around-- but he'd save it, oh yes he would.

Jill smirked at him and he smirked back.

* * *

'tis finished! Thank you for reading! Part 2 is on the way...

* * *


	10. Wedding Epilogue, Pt 1: How Far?

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Supernatural or any of it's characters-- they all own me.

* * *

His head was pounding out a rhythm and his shoulder was keeping time to it. His mouth was so dry he couldn't even swallow, and every twitch sent icy spikes of fire through his chest and ribcage. The music and laughter and people and _talking _weren't helping. 

The talking especially.

If one more person sat down next to him and started a conversation with, _so you're Sam's brother, _he was going to fuckin' scream – or punch something. No shit, Sherlock, he was Sam's brother, they'd pretty much announced that over a megaphone when he'd first come in.

It was driving him insane, all these _friendly _people. Christ. Did he _look _like he wanted to talk to a middle aged woman about whether there was too much garlic in the pasta?

He'd had to escape; snapping at Sam's wedding reception was not an option.

"You didn't eat the dead cow on your plate," Jill murmured, coming to stand next him.

Dean glanced down at her. He'd wondered since he met her how something so small – 5'1", 100 pounds soaking wet – and so _cute – _curly light brown hair, big blue eyes – could be Satan's favorite spawn.

"Go away," he said.

She eyed him. "What are you doing out here?" she asked.

He remained silent. Maybe if he ignored her . . .

"Dean?"

He sighed. "Don't you have any chickens to sacrifice?"

"Sacrificing chickens is so passé," she offered haughtily.

He rolled his eyes; he was too tired to deal with Jill.

"What do you want?"

"Sam is asking everyone where you are. He's getting that panicky, puppy-dog look that makes Jess get that angry _why-the-hell-isn't-someone-finding-Dean_ look." She arched her eyebrows at him, "We got a lot of that today."

Dean remained silent. He sure as hell wasn't going to apologize to _Jill_ for today.

"The party's _inside_..."

"And I'm outside. Go away, kid."

"You're such an ass," she huffed, scowling at him; she always got so riled up when he brought up her age.

"What the hell is wrong with you? It's their wedding!" she continued and he scowled at her.

"I don't need you to lecture me!" he snapped.

"Well you need someone to tell you to pull your head out of you ass because you're acting like -"

He shifted to face her and felt satisfied when her mouth snapped shut. He wasn't in the mood to be the _Dean_ she knew.

"I needed some air. You're sucking it all up. Go. Away," he stated coldly.

She blinked at him, something in her gaze shifting. "You okay?" she asked him softly.

The burst of frustration that welled up inside him was surprising and he had to clench his fists to keep from lashing out at her. "I'm fine," He grated out; and then stared at her. He refused to tell her again.

"Yeah. Okay," she murmured, her gaze suddenly sharper. She took a step towards him instead of away.

"Jill," he spat. Last warning.

Her mouth was drawn into a straight line and her gaze was fastened on his, studying him. And then as abruptly as it had begun, her gaze was gone and she was turning around, heading back to the hotel lobby, back to the party.

Dean sighed and shifted to face forward again, leaning back against the wall. He was standing at the side of the building, trying to pull a deep breath that didn't make him want to double over. What he really wanted to do was find a motel with strong water pressure and take the longest shower known to man.

He closed his eyes and held himself absolutely still. If he didn't move, if he didn't breathe too hard, then it didn't hurt at all.

He couldn't hold still inside the hotel. Hell inside that place he couldn't hear himself _think_. There were so many people . . . and it seemed every single one had something to say to him – about Sam. All of them wanted stories; all of them had questions – it was just . . . fuckin' _hard. _

And there weren't enough friggin' exits in that room. Just people. People everywhere – dancing, eating, talking, laughing . . . knowing Sam; wanting him to know how they knew Sam . . . _God_ . . .

He wouldn't have minded so much if Metallica's drummer wasn't doing a solo in his head; but right now if he turned too quickly the world did a lovely impression of blurred watercolors for him, mixing and shifting and making him want to puke.

"Christ, Dean."

Sam's voice, so close, made him jump and tense, eyes shooting open and body jerking away from the wall. His little brother was standing directly in front him, eyeing him with that vaguely panicky look Sam had perfected.

Jumping and jerking weren't exactly holding still; Dean hissed, wrapping an arm around his ribs and bending forward a little. It _hurt _now – thanks, Sam.

He glared at the younger man. "What?" he asked, and it came out sounding a bit more like a growl than he'd intended.

"You look like shit, that's what," Sam stated, reaching out to grab his arm. "Come on . . ."

_That _would hurt too, Dean realized quickly, and stepped back against the wall again.

"Dean -" Sam's voice sounded aggravated. Dean sighed softly. He hadn't _meant _to aggravate his brother today.

"I'm okay, Sam," Dean told him, gentling his tone. "You go back inside. I'll be there in a minute."

Sam arched an eyebrow at him, "Why are you out here in the first place?"

"How did you _know _I was out here in the first place?"

"Jill," Sam answered instantly, a smile tugging at his lips. "The little-sister gene made her tell on you."

Dean remained silent. Sam arched an eyebrow, the smile slipping away, "Well?" he asked.

Dean offered his brother a small smirk. "Too many people -" he murmured, letting the sentence trail.

Sam was silent a moment, then returned the half-smile. "- Not enough exits," he finished.

Dean's smile widened a little, "Or weapons."

Sam laughed at that, "Yeah, seriously. Some of those people..."

"There's this creepy lady that keeps pinching my cheek."

"Yeah, well, there's this one lady that keeps telling me as a married man I should really cut my hair."

"When I got up from the table someone pinched my ass."

"I had to dance the waltz."

Dean grinned widely, "Yeah, and it's totally on tape."

"Shut up."

"Go inside. You graceful, married man, you."

"Yeah. Come with me."

"Sam -"

"Come on... just... come, would you?"

Dean sighed; his brother was giving him that pathetic, puppy dog look again. He hated that look. Someday he was going to develop immunity to that look – someday soon, even.

"Fine," he hissed, bracing himself for a moment and then pushing off the wall again. He started down the street, painfully aware of his brother's unflinching gaze glued to his back.

"So yeah. How many walls did you get thrown into?" Sam asked as he fell into step beside him.

Dean rolled his eyes. It was going to be a long night.

* * *

It was almost over. It had to be. Mike had given a sweet, polite, perfectly acceptable speech in lieu of the best man after Dean flat out refused. Things had been tossed and caught and photographed and _aww_ed over and cried over. The crowd was thinning, the music had gotten softer, the lights were dimmer – and really, he didn't know how much more of this he could take. So yeah, it had to be almost over. Because if he heard one more fuckin' glass _tinkle _he was gonna pull out his .9mm and make the fuckin' glass _tinkle _for _real – _and that could be a problem. 

But seriously, Christ on _crutches_, whoever had come up with the 'bride-and-groom-kiss-at-every-glass-tinkle'tradition ought to be taken out back and shot. And even though he wasn't sure he could actually make it out back, he'd volunteer to do it. Because yeah, he wanted to see Sam and Jess to suck face as much as the next guy, but there was no friggin' reason why they couldn't do it _quietly._

"Here."

Dean looked up. Jill was standing next to his chair, holding a closed hand out to him.

He stared at it. He'd moved his head too quickly and had to blink a few times until the room stopped shifting. He took a moment to swallow and was about to ask her _what _when she sighed.

"Oh wow..." she murmured, sounding slightly amused.

And suddenly she was holding his wrist.

"Open your hand," she ordered.

He did, frowning up at her. Jill dropped three pills in his hand. "Sam told me to give you these before. It's taken me like _years _to get over here. There's family here I forgot I had!" she added, waving her hand towards the dance floor.

Her gaze went back to him; she was staring at him again. Waiting for something?

He tried to swallow once more. "Oh," he murmured in response, dismissing her; and searched across the ballroom until he found Sam. His younger brother was standing with two older men.

"You need to take them, Dean." Jill's voice startled him a little. Even from here Dean could see the tautness of Sam's smile.

She was sitting next to him suddenly, which was where she was supposed to be sitting anyway. Except that this thing was almost over and people weren't sitting anymore – most people.

Almost over. Yeah.

"Dean?" she said, and he remembered – take them, right.

He nodded and put the pills in his mouth. He'd started swallowing before he remembered that his mouth was dry, that he'd need water and that he hadn't asked what they were.

Jill placed a glass of water in his hand, "Tylenol," she told him as he drank.

Dean nodded, putting the glass back on the table. They were silent.

His gaze went back to Sam, his brother was still smiling – still miserable. He wanted to go over and help him out, but whenever he'd tried to talk to anyone here he made things worse. They were so _friendly _and _welcoming _it made him a little nauseous – or maybe that was pain in his ribs. Either way, he'd learned it was best to just sit tight.

Every once in awhile Sam would come and sit next to him; sort of recharging before heading back out there. God alone knew where Jess was.  
"That's Uncle Lou and Uncle Kenny with Sam. He's bored to tears because they're probably telling him how to invest his money. Or the ways that he won't make money. Or things that he shouldn't do with money he has or will have, etcetera . . ." she sighed. "I actually feel bad for him."

Dean almost chuckled, but remembered his ribs in time and instead just widened his eyes comically. "Really?" he asked.

She shrugged, smirking, "I wouldn't wish Uncle Lou or Uncle Kenny even on _you_."

That did make him chuckle and he winced immediately after. She was watching him.

She was standing then, patting his shoulder, "Just another hour and then we're finished here."

He watched her flit over to where Sam was standing and watched as Sam actually relaxed a bit. Dean smiled a little. The devil you knew . . .

* * *

The girls were buzzing around him. Drunk. They were all definitely drunk. He was vaguely following the talk about shoes and boyfriends and photographers . . . or _the _photographer, whatever. 

The giggling was distracting . . . and the barely covered legs and arms and breasts . . . they were distracting too . . .

They were all off limits, he knew that – and yeah, he was pretty sure he should be hospitalized or at least medicated, but hell – he wasn't _dead. _Kerrie, Lacey, and even Jill were looking _good _tonight, wearing the same mid-length, low-cut, backless lavender dresses. So following their conversation was low on his priority list.

They were asking him questions though, to which he would nod or just stare. They were smiling at him too, and trying to button the top button of his shirt and tilting his face one way and another to look at the bruises. One of them brought him a bowl of soup – _soup, _and offered to feed it to him, because he hadn't eaten dinner; which apparently they'd noticed.

He mostly ignored them and after awhile they magically drifted away, patting his shoulder and giving him weird, funny looks. Kerrie actually patted his head and murmured a quiet, _such a__sweetheart_, as she glided away on stocking feet, shoes in one hand. He blinked at her bare back. Lacey was doing the same –_Lacey_, gliding on the polished floor . . . they were definitely drunk.

He didn't _feel _like a sweetheart. He felt . . . tired.

Dean startled when he felt a hand land on his arm. Wincing, he slowly turned his head. Jill was still sitting next to him. She was watching him with those wide, blue eyes that were identical to Jess's – only not as friendly. The thought made him smirk a little.

"Eat the soup," she told him.

Dean blinked and stared at the bowl in front of him. His stomach recoiled at the idea. "I don't – do soup, babe," he murmured, but it was hard to do snarky when your stomach was roiling around.

She stared at him for a moment, before nodding. "Okay," Jill agreed and removed the bowl from his line of sight.

He was grateful for that; the smell had been making him nauseous. He lifted his gaze to the ballroom again. Sam was nowhere in sight.

"Soup's gone," he heard Jill state, her voice a curious tone between soft and amused with something else added in that he'd been hearing all night from her.

He turned to look her. "Where's Sam?" he asked, and nearly cringed at how pitiful he sounded. _Christ, _no wonder the girls were looking at him like that . . .

"He's seeing people off," she told him. "Party's over. He'll be right back."

He nodded – and instantly regretted the motion.

His sight clouded over; Dean took a deep breath as black spots danced in his vision, ribcage burning and pain shooting through him. He lost his breath, closing both eyes tightly; Dean wrapped an arm around his ribs, bending forward a little as he tried to breathe, to stamp down the stabs of pain.

"Hey," a warm hand was suddenly splayed across his back.

He blinked his eyes open slowly, "Sam . . ."

The hand on his back rubbed gently. "Yeah man," Sam's voice was soft, "How're you feeling?"

Dean blinked again, trying to clear the haze. "M'fine," he murmured, frowning when the words slurred.

"Yeah, sure." His little brother didn't sound convinced. "You need to get some rest." Sam's voice was gentle, like he was talking to frightened kid or something –Dean hated that voice. He particularly hated it because it _was _comforting, because with that voice and Sam's hand smoothing his back he was having trouble keeping his eyes from slipping shut . . .

"Okay, let's get you out of here," he heard Sam say. His uninjured arm was across his brother's shoulders suddenly and he knew that Sam was going to pull him up, was going to straighten him out. He meant to brace himself, but didn't do it fast enough.

Pain slashed across his torso and he gasped.

Sam's hold shifted a little, "Sorry," he muttered, easing Dean along his side. Dean hung there for a moment, catching his breath, leaning into Sam, head lowered. It took a moment, but when his breath came back so did his awareness – and _Christ _there were _people _watching this.

He pulled himself away. "I can walk," he griped, shrugging away from Sam.

Sam let him go, but didn't back away. "I'll walk you to your room," he offered instead. Dean blinked at him. Room? Had he missed part of that conversation?

"Room?" he asked, shifting his feet, finding his balance, "Here?"

"Yeah man, here." Sam responded.

"Why?"

"Because I'm not going home and you're not driving yourself."

He frowned, "I can -"

"No."

"I don't -"

"The entire wedding party is booked in a suite, no one is going anywhere tonight. It was the plan all along. I booked your room already."

Dean didn't give a shit what the _wedding party _was doing. He didn't like Sam's tone. He scowled. "I can -"

"You're not driving anywhere."

Truth was he didn't really _want _to drive anywhere, but Sam was using _that _tone – as if it were _law _or something just 'cause he'd said it. And it was an older brother's sacred duty to not allow that tone to win. He opened his mouth to argue, when Jess stepped in front of him.

She patted his chest gently. "Oh honey, you look exhausted," she murmured, looking up into his face, blue eyes wide and concerned.

"Come on, Dean," Sam repeated and that _I-said-so _tone was gone, replaced by the gentle one and Dean sighed. The _I-said-so _tone was easier to fight. "It's a nice room," Sam continued, guiding him towards the exit of the ballroom. "And then you can go home tomorrow if you want. Jess and I are staying the weekend so you can have the apartment all to yourself – tomorrow. Tonight you stay here . . ."

"You'll like the room, Dean. It has a big TV and a bar and a snack station . . . you'll love it," Jess added, coming around on the other side of him. They were at the center of the dancing floor now. He could see people cleaning up, putting equipment and tables and chairs away – the party was over.

Sam was married.

"Jus' wanna bed," he murmured, exhaustion weighing him down suddenly.

He stumbled. Sam came closer, supporting his weight a little and Dean didn't have the energy to shrug out of his brother's hold. It seemed to take forever to reach the ballroom exit, but the sight that met his gaze wasn't particularly welcome – a hallway stretched before him, and a foyer beyond that, and who knew what else after that.

He was exhausted and Sam was married and Dad had left.

Dad had left, and he hadn't said where he was going or what he was hunting next. He'd left without seeing Sam or meeting Jess. He'd left without _trying _at all.

He'd left and Sam was married.

Dean swallowed hard, trying to stave off an imminent wave of weariness, forcing himself to draw his thoughts away from where they were headed. A place where choices were made, sides picked—lines drawn. A place where nothing he did stopped him from wondering just how long, how far middle ground would really stretch.

* * *

"M'fine." 

"Yeah, I know."

They'd been having the same exchange since leaving the lobby; where Dean had tripped for the fourth time and Sam had refused to be shrugged off. His brother was leaning heavily on him now, his head hanging low, steps sluggish, skin feverishly warm – and Sam was starting to feel touches of panic.

Dean had looked fine for most of the reception-- until he just hadn't.

It had been an abrupt change, he'd looked over and suddenly Dean had looked _ill_ – pale and dazed, dark bruises standing out vividly.

Thankfully, the night had almost been over at that point. And god . . . it had been a long night.

Jess's night.

He'd just wanted to marry her, she'd wanted a wedding. She'd wanted the dress and the dancing and the family and the pictures – for once, she'd wanted more normal than he had.

Dean stumbled against him and Sam tightened his hold instinctively. Dean hissed in pain, tensing. Sam winced. "Sorry," he muttered again.

"M'fine."

"Yeah, I know."

Sam breathed a sigh of relief when they reached Dean's room. He leaned Dean against the wall and opened the door, then carefully maneuvered his brother inside and sat him on the bed.

Dean immediately curled sideways, leaning down onto the mattress.

"No, no . . ." he said, gripping Dean's arm. "Not yet – let's take a look at you first."

Dean blinked at him, not even frowning. ". . . M'tired . . ." he murmured, eyes half-closed.

Sam reached out and gently pulled him up, straightening him so that he was sitting up on the bed. "I know; just a quick look," he responded.

Dean didn't argue and Sam felt something tighten inside him, his mouth going dry. A compliant Dean was never a good sign.

He started carefully unbuttoned the shirt and pulled it off. Dean jerked a little as the shirt came off, but he said nothing. Sam grabbed the ends of the undershirt and pulled upwards--

Ice hit his veins when Dean gasped, pain contorting his features.

Sam released the shirt instantly, "_What!?_ What is it!?" he asked urgently.

". . . Shoulder," Dean breathed, chest rising and falling rapidly, grimacing as he worked to control the pain.

Sam swallowed hard. "Which one?"

"Right."

He nodded and took a deep breath; then resumed taking Dean's shirt off. Carefully and slowly, he pulled it off the left arm and shoulder first. "Duck your head a little," he told Dean.

Dean let his head drop forward limply and Sam felt his heart skip a beat – not a comforting image.

Gently he eased the shirt over Dean's head and then slowly down the right arm. Dean winced as the material rubbed against the bruising.

Sam couldn't stop the gasp at the sight of them. Dean's shoulder was one big mass of dark bruising. The area of his ribcage was a mottled display of them ranging from yellowish to deep purple, some areas red and inflamed looking. Sam lifted his gaze to Dean's face, "Do you have broken ribs?" he stated, not caring that the question sounded like an accusation.

How could Dean not _say _anything?

Again those dazed blinks. Then a quiet, "Maybe."

And Sam felt his anger vanish as suddenly as it had appeared, "Oh god, Dean," he murmured, realizing the pain he had to be in. "Just . . . lie back . . ." he said, reaching behind his brother to stack pillows against the headboard. The he eased Dean back against them; Dean didn't argue, didn't comment, didn't insist he was fine. He let Sam handle him, glazed eyes staring blankly ahead.

Sam drew in a deep breath and tried to swallow past his dry mouth; he knelt and removed Dean's shoes, then lifted his legs onto the bed, stretching him out.

Dean's eyes had slid shut, his breathing evened out in sleep, too shallow for Sam's liking. His brother looked so exhausted and pale underneath the fever's flush. The idea of waking him up bothered Sam. Dean needed the sleep as much as he needed anything else.

But his breathing was too shallow and a fever shouldn't be ignored – there were some things that had to be done.

Sam collected ice and towels, water and pain medicine before he sat down next to Dean on the bed. He settled the palm of his hand high on Dean's chest. "Hey," he called softly. "Wake up." He tapped fingers lightly against his brother's chest. "Come on, dude," he added.

Eyelashes fluttered.

"Yeah, that's it – wake up."

Dean swallowed hard, blinking owlishly. "Sam?"

Sam smiled. "Yep. Here – take these." He lifted Dean's head slowly and carefully fed him the pills and water. "You're running a light fever," he explained quietly. "We need to ice your ribs for a little bit, bring the swelling down – it'll help your breathing. All the moving around and sitting up tonight didn't help . . ." he continued, adding softly, "You really should have said something . . ."

He knew he was babbling, but he was hoping to distract Dean. His brother hadn't yet registered the word _ice _and Sam hoped to keep it that way for a few more seconds.

He pressed the ice gently against Dean's skin.

Dean reacted violently, arching away and growling, _"Shit!" _His arms swatted at the offending item. "**FUCK, **Sammy," he gasped.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry . . ." Sam muttered over and over again, even as he grappled with Dean to get him still.

"What are you **doing **here?" Dean spat out, trying to turn away.

"Hold still!"

Dean squirmed a moment longer before slumping onto the bed, too exhausted to struggle for long. He eyed Sam accusingly. "Hurts," he muttered.

Sam exhaled quickly. "Sorry," he repeated, but held the ice steady.

Dean shuddered suddenly, the ice beginning to numb and spread. He blinked at Sam, as if seeing him for the first time. He frowned. "What are you – where am I?" he asked, panic touching his voice, eyes darting around the room.

"Hotel," Sam answered instantly. "I got you a room, remember?"

Dean stared at him a moment longer and Sam frowned in concern.

Another moment passed and then Dean sighed softly and ran a hand over his face, "Right, yeah . . ."

Sam shifted the ice, Dean gasped.

"Sorry, sorry . . ." Sam mumbled again.

He watched as Dean's eyes began to slide shut, watched as he jerked them open, "What're you doing 'ere?" His brother asked again, slurring a little.

Sam frowned, "The reception was here."

Dean was obviously losing the adrenaline-fueled energy of moments ago, eyes slid shut before he answered.

Sam studied the bruise on his shoulder – he knew without a shadow of a doubt that the faintest touch would set off waves of agony, but he couldn't let the joint freeze up . . .

Dean opened his eyes again. "Yeah," he muttered, loading the word with tired sarcasm. "You jus' got married . . ." he added.

Sam blinked, an image of Jess in her wedding gown flashing through his mind. "Yeah," he agreed, smiling.

"Dude," Dean continued, obviously forcing the words out, "Go be . . . with . . . your _wife _. .."

Sam nodded, shifting the ice again, "I will . . ." he agreed.

Dean only winced this time". . . shou' g'now . . ." he gasped.

Sam frowned. "I'm busy now," he noted dryly.

"You can't . . . leave Jess . . ." Dean was fading fast, "- alone on . . . her . . . wedding nigh' . . ." the last words were barely audible, and his blinks were getting longer.

"She's not alone; she and Jill are opening presents."

Dean's scowl was sleepily ferocious and Sam carefully lifted the ice away. "_Your _presents," he whispered. "Go . . . m'fine . . ."

Sam chuckled softly; they'd come full circle. "Let her gush about the wedding and the party with Jill – I swear our marriage'll start out smoother that way."

"M'fine . . ." Dean repeated, eyes slipping shut again.

Sam's smile faded. He set the ice and towel away, then laid a hand in Dean's hair. "Yeah, Dean . . ." he murmured, "I know . . ."

* * *

"Why would he do that? Why would he just leave?" Sam asked, pacing the floor in his and Jess's hotel room. 

Jess was standing to one side. "I don't know, Sam. He'll probably be back though," she offered, sparing a quick glance at Jill, who was sitting Indian-style on the made bed. She rolled her eyes.

"He took his stuff!" Sam growled.

"But where would he go? He's still pretty beat up," Jess pointed out. Sam said nothing, just paced. "Do you think he went back to our place?" she asked, following his pacing.

Sam shrugged, "I don't know! I just . . . I don't get him! He comes all this way and makes such an effort and then he just _leaves. _And he doesn't even _tell _me . . . doesn't say where he's going or when I'll see him next – doesn't say _goodbye, _even! How am I suppose to -"

"Did you try calling him?" Jill asked.

Sam froze, head whipping towards the younger girl, eyes widening. The room was utterly still.

A moment later, Jill huffed and pushed herself off the bed.

"You know," she said, going to nightstand and picking up the handset, "I bet it's not too late." She handed the phone to Sam, eyes fastened on Jess. "You could still get this thing annulled," she advised.

Jess scowled, "Why don't you go find Mom and Dad?"

Jill shrugged, "I'm just saying! The _most _logical thing would have been to call! I mean seriously -"

"Good-bye, Jill." Jess's voice sliced into younger girl's sentence and Jill's mouth snapped shut.

_"Okay_," she drew the word out, "I'm going..."

The room was silent as she closed the door behind her.

"She's right," Sam stated, just as Jess released a long sigh.

"Yeah," she agreed after a pause, looking up at him. A moment later she offered him a small smile, "But logic and freaking out don't go so well together."

A smile tugged at the corners of Sam's mouth, "Was I freaking out?"

"Oh yeah," she confirmed, then waved a hand in his direction, "Call Dean, find out what's going on. Then come get me, I'm heading to the outdoor pool . . ."

Sam was nodding, but she wasn't finished, narrowing her eyes at him. "At which point I expect your complete, wholly undivided attention, got it?"

He grinned. "Complete, huh?" he asked, coming closer.

"Yep," she nodded, letting him pull her close. The kiss was warm and brief. She pushed away. "And undivided too," she reminded him as she turned and headed for the door.

Sam chuckled, watching her leave. When the door closed the smile, and his good humor, vanished.

Dean had left the hotel without one _word _to him. It was – unusual. It set off alarms in Sam's head, making the freaking out more to do with _scared _than _angry_.

He sat on the bed and dialed Dean's cell phone number. It rang and rang and rang . . . he was about to panic, thinking that Dean wasn't going to pick up, when he did.

"Hey," he said simply.

Sam released a long breath, suddenly just _scared_. "What's going on?" he asked.

"Nothing, why do you -"

"Don't lie to me, Dean."

"I'm not -"

"So you just thought leaving without saying goodbye – hell, with barely saying anything to me at all since you got here, was a good idea? You thought it would be a good idea to _drive _in the condition you're in? You thought no one would notice -"

"Stop it. I get it. You're pissed... and yeah maybe I -"

"I'm _worried_, there's a difference."

Dean huffed and Sam could practically see him rolling his eyes, "Okayfine,_ worried, _but just chill okay. I'm fine – better, and there's just . . . I had to go, Sam."

"Why?"

There was pause on the other end, then, "A job."

Sam blinked, his grip on the phone tightening, "A job?" The question slipped out before he could stop it and he cringed. He didn't question the jobs. It was part of their unspoken agreement, communicated through looks and tones and the way the air got heavier around them. He could ask about jobs, refer to jobs, joke about jobs – but never question their existence.

"Yeah, Sam. A job," Dean stated, voice a few degrees colder.

Sam swallowed hard, not backpedaling, "Today? In your condition? You scheduled a job the day after my -"

"Don't fall into the delusions you made for Jess, Sam. I don't _schedule _jobs."

"You're not up to -"

"I can't let the trail -"

"- hunting right now."

"- go cold."

They both fell silent.

Dean sighed first, Sam followed. The line was quiet again.

"Go enjoy your bride, Sammy."

"Dean, you can't right now. You're going to get yourself killed hunting like that! You know better!" He couldn't stop himself from yelling, from standing up and waving a hand in the air as if Dean could see him.

"Relax--"

"NO. I'm not going to relax! You're _not _okay! I don't understand why you're doing this _now!? _I mean, its my -"

"It's not always about you, Sam!"

His mouth snapped shut. They were on shaky ground, now. The silence stretched and Sam tried to swallow, his mouth suddenly dry.

"I wasn't planning on leaving," Dean said quietly, a peace offering. "It just . . ." he paused, "I know you wanted me to stay longer. I was going to, but something . . . there's something -" he sighed. "Can you – just drop it, Sam?"

This wasn't about a job, Sam thought suddenly, panic unfurling inside him again; this was about _something _and Dean not telling him what it was meant it was something bad.

"Dean . . ." he said, unable to keep the panic out of his voice.

"It's gonna be okay," Dean responded, and the panic bloomed.

"_What's _gonna be okay?!" he asked, voice an octave too high.

"Just drop it, Sam. I have to go. I'm driving, you always tell me not to talk and drive." There was forced lightness in the tone now, a real effort to sound normal – that terrified Sam more than anything else.

"Dean, please," he choked out, sounding five years old, not a man just married.

"It's okay," Dean comforted, as he always did. "I promise. It's okay . . . enjoy your weekend. I'll talk to you later." Normal shifted to hardness, to Dean saying _no _and clamming up tight. Dean telling him this conversation was over, whether he wanted it to be or not.

Sam felt the ground shift, it was moving, changing . . . Dean wasn't telling him where he was going, when he'd be back . . .

"Dean--"

"I don't know, Sam," his brother interrupted, already knowing what Sam would ask. The line was quiet for a moment. Then Dean added, "Stay safe."

Sam swallowed hard. "You too," he whispered, because he wasn't getting any more out of Dean. A moment later the dial tone confirmed it. He ended the call and placed the phone on the bed. Something had happened; between last night when he'd left Dean asleep and this morning when he'd gone to check on him, something _big _had happened. Because his brother had just _left _and Dean never did that.

Dean never just took off; that too was part of their agreement.

Something had happened, changed things. Sam felt it with the instincts of a hunter. Something had shifted the ground they stood on, and he could only hope it wasn't permanent.

* * *

He should go back. He should turn around and go back to Sam's little weekend party. He should do it because one day didn't really mean the difference between being able to drive for twenty hours straight or not, because he felt like shit, because he hadn't let anyone know he was leaving. He should do it because his little brother wanted him to be there. He should do it because he should try his damnedest to make Sam happy this weekend. He should do it because he wanted to; he really, honestly _did. _Dean wanted to see Sam smile and laugh, to see him joke and play around because no matter how many times he saw that, it never got old. 

He wasn't going back.

Something was wrong. He'd come to drop off his bag, to pick up the postcards Jess always asked for – he'd had every intention of going back.

The journal was in the glove compartment. _The Journal _was in the glove compartment. Dad had _left _it there. Dad never left the journal _anywhere. _It was always where he was, in the motel or in his truck. It had been years since the Impala was his to leave the journal in; the Impala was Dean's. There was _no reason_ for the journal to be in the Impala.

But it was. His Dad had left it, shoved it in there, crumbling the postcards behind it. When Dean had opened the dashboard it had all fallen out, spilling into his hands, bursting like dirty water from a corroded pipe. He'd held it for a long moment, staring at it, letting the realization that it was _there _filter through him. Letting it tell him something was _wrong._

It could have been an accident, he thought at first, an oversight.

Eight unanswered calls later he was sure it wasn't. His Dad wasn't the easiest person to get in touch with at times, hell usually.

But his Dad _always _picked up the phone when he knew Dean wasn't at 100. He could be short-tempered and gruff on the line if the call came at a time when he was busy or downright pissed if it came at a time when he didn't want it, but he always picked up when he knew Dean hurt.

Something was wrong. His gut was telling him that, screaming it and his gut had saved his life more than once. He trusted it, trusted his instincts enough to put the Impala into gear and screech his way out of the hotel parking lot.

He had to _find Dad. _He had to do it as soon as possible, _now _even. He'd go by Lucas's first, see if Dad had mentioned anything to him. If that turned up nothing, he wasn't sure where he'd go, what he'd do, keep calling, keep driving.

He'd set the journal on the passenger seat next to his cell phone. Dean would look through it later – after his talk with Lucas. Right now he concentrated on not passing out in the midst of getting his ass back to Michigan.

He could be overreacting, freaking out over nothing – except that he just _knew _he wasn't. Sam would be freaking out he thought suddenly, wincing as he envisioned his little brother going to his room and not finding Dean anywhere.

He should come up with something to tell him, something to make it better. Except that Sam wouldn't find comfort in any reason Dean gave him – even the truth. Dean had no way of putting his feeling into words, and even if he could, Sam would discount it. His little brother's instincts had dulled; years away from hunting had made him forget the power instinct held; how it could guide you when properly honed.

Sam wouldn't accept anything Dean had to say for leaving . . . just as Dad didn't accept anything Sam had to say.

His breath hitched suddenly, pain rippling through him. Dean gripped the steering wheel tight. Sam would be pissed and confused and unable to understand why Dean was doing this. He swallowed hard. Just as Dad had been when Dean had started seeing Sam again.

Sometimes he felt he'd snap under the strain of being their only link. Sometimes he wondered how long they could all go on like this . . . living with blinders on, seeing only what they wanted to see.

His phone vibrated suddenly. Dean glanced at it, _Sam _flashed on the screen.

Sometimes he wondered if he was the only who realized that middle ground just wasn't stretching far enough these days...

He released a shaky breath and slowly reached for his cell phone.

… that someday soon they would run out of it completely.

* * *

**Author's Note**: Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed this story. It has meant so much to me! I appreciate and treasure your words greatly. 

This is the last story to be posted in Middle Ground. However, it is not necessarily that last story in this 'verse. ;) I have a few things planned out.

And a great big thank you **Lembas7** for your help and advice. :D

* * *


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